Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  Sara swallowed. “What are you trying to say?”

  “You can’t keep something like this a secret for very long,” he continued, “and frankly speaking, we felt it was time to let the facts be known—a little bit at a time, of course.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She had heard a vague rumor or two and dismissed them as wishful thinking. “Do you mean . . . ?”

  He nodded. “We have found a cure, or at the very least a strong treatment, for the AIDS virus.”

  “My God.”

  “It doesn’t work all the time yet,” he continued quickly, “and it is not a wonder cure in the classic sense. It is a long, often painful regimen, but in a number of cases we have had great success.”

  “But why would you want to keep that secret?”

  He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. Sara had never seen Harvey look so tense and strained. “A good question,” he replied. “HIV, the so-called Human Immunodeficiency Virus, is a very tricky bug. It was hard to know for sure if we were truly blocking its effect or if the virus was just taking it easy on us for a little while. HIV is constantly changing, mutating, even hiding inside human cells. We didn’t know about the true, long-term effects of what we were doing. Imagine, Sara, if we came out claiming to have a cure for AIDS only to find out we were wrong.”

  “It would be catastrophic,” she agreed.

  “To put it mildly. Plus we have the HHS to contend with.”

  “The Department of Health and Human Services? What do they have to do with this?”

  “Everything. They’re a giant bureaucracy and bureaucrats have a way of slowing things down to a crawl. The Public Health Service—hell, the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, the National Institutes of Health—all that is under the goddamn control of the Department of HHS.”

  “Bureaucrats on top of bureaucrats.”

  “Exactly. That’s one of the reasons we kept our safe house out of the country, where no one from Health and Human Services could interfere whenever they got bored or somebody’s ego was bent out of shape.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “You know that I served as a medic in Vietnam, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I spent a lot of time in Southeast Asia. It’s a quiet society. Mysterious. No one interferes with your business. Bruce and I decided to keep all our lab tests—tissue specimens, blood samples, that kind of thing—in Bangkok, where they would be not very accessible.”

  “To avoid some of the bureaucracy?”

  He nodded. “While their function is certainly justifiable, the FDA, for example, has a habit of testing drugs for years to make sure they’re safe. You’ve probably read about all the experimental drugs the FDA won’t allow AIDS patients to take.”

  She nodded. “Never made much sense to me.”

  “It’s a complex debate, but I agree with you. If AIDS is a terminal illness, what harm can it cause a poor bastard who’s already on death row to experiment? What we at the clinic hoped to do was to provide the FDA with so much evidence that any unnecessary delay would be prevented. At the same time we could test our compound without the panic and media attention that our results would cause.”

  Sara thought for a moment. “But couldn’t you just show the government your results in secret? They’d be sure to allocate more funds once they saw some positive results.”

  He smiled. “You forget that the people who decide these matters are politicians. Can you picture a politician being closemouthed about something this big? No way, Sara. They would try to milk this for all the votes it could get them.”

  “Good point.”

  “And one other thing. Not all the bigwigs are in favor of our program. Your father, for one.”

  “My father’s objections to your clinic are different,” she snapped defensively. “If he knew that a cure was being found—”

  “Perhaps I spoke too hastily,” he interrupted. “Your father is a dedicated healer and I would never question his commitment to stop human suffering. I don’t agree with his stand on AIDS, but I understand that it is a difference of opinion, not ideology. But there are others, Sara—men like that bastard Sanders and his lobotomized followers—who would do anything to stop our research.”

  “But I don’t see what all this has to do with Bruce’s death. If you were so close to reaching your goal, why did he kill himself?”

  Harvey lowered his head. His bloodshot and tired eyes stared down at his shoes. “That’s just the point.”

  “What is?”

  He fiddled with the mixing straw in his glass. “Let’s say I wanted to prove to you that we really have found a cure for AIDS. What could I show you to prove our claim beyond a shadow of a doubt?”

  “Case studies.”

  He nodded. “In other words, patients who have been cured, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Bruce, Eric and I saw it the same way. The major part of our research is our patients, Sara. Obviously, if we can present to the world patients who are fully cured—patients who are no longer HIV positive—then we have the evidence needed to support our claim.”

  “Understood.”

  “The problem is that two of our best case studies—Bill Whitherson and Scott Trian—are now dead.”

  “AIDS-related?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Murdered.”

  The word hit Sara like a sharp slap. “What?”

  “They both died of multiple stab wounds within two weeks of one another.”

  “I didn’t read anything about this.”

  “The murder of gays is hardly front-page stuff, Sara.”

  “Did you talk to the police?”

  He nodded. “They thought it was an interesting coincidence but nothing more. They pointed out other similarities between the two men—both were gay, lived in Greenwich Village, had brown hair, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “They could be right,” she said. “It could be just a coincidence.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “I thought that too.”

  “But?”

  “But now Bruce is dead.”

  “And you think his suicide is related to this?”

  He paused and let out a deep breath. “I don’t think Bruce committed suicide, Sara. I think he was murdered.”

  Sara felt her mouth go dry. “But how can that be? Wasn’t a note found?”

  “Yes.”

  “And wasn’t it in Bruce’s handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how—”

  “I’m not sure how it worked. It could have been a clever forgery or something—I don’t know.”

  Sara’s face twisted into a look of puzzlement. “Then you’re saying that Bruce was thrown through the window?”

  “I’m saying that it’s worth looking into. Bruce was supposed to be in Cancún on vacation. What kind of man flies home early from a vacation to kill himself? And something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “A few minutes before Bruce died, he called me on the phone. He sounded scared shitless. He said he needed to talk to me in private about something important. I’m sure it was about the murders. We only spoke for a minute or two before he suddenly hung up.”

  “Did Bruce tell you where he was?”

  “No.”

  “Let me ask you something else,” she continued, her mind racing now. “Are there other good case studies you could present besides the two murder victims?”

  “Yes. At least four others. I know this whole thing sounds crazy, Sara, and yes, I know there are a million more rational solutions to all of this. There could be a psychotic gay-basher hanging around the clinic who followed Whitherson and Trian home and killed them. It could even be another patient or a staff member. But, Sara, this is so big, so important. If—and I admit it’s a big if—if someone murdered them because of their affiliation to the clinic and if that someone does the same to the others, it could mean a d
elay in proving that the treatment works. That delay could cost thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of lives.”

  “I see your point,” she said, “but why are you telling me?”

  Harvey smiled, though his face still looked weary. “I don’t have much, Sara. I’m divorced. I have no kids. My only brother died of AIDS. My father died years ago and my mother has Alzheimer’s. I work all the time, so I don’t have a lot of friends.” He stopped now as if trying to summon up some additional strength. “Michael has always been like a son to me. That makes you, well, the best kind of daughter-in-law. Whether you like it or not, you and Michael are my family.”

  “We like it,” she said softly. She took hold of his hand. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “I’m going to tell Michael, but I wanted to speak to you first. Eric, of course, knows. He’s been wonderful since joining the clinic last year. I depend on him for everything.”

  “I’m glad he worked out so well.”

  “Yeah, well, Eric and I are both starting to question our sanity over this whole murder mess. We’re not sure if we’re complete lunatics or just a pair of paranoid conspiracy nuts. Working on a disease like this one can make you a little batty after a while. Will you help me investigate this?”

  “I’ll get on it right away,” she said. “I have a friend in homicide, a Detective Max Bernstein. I’ll speak to him about it. But I have another suggestion.”

  “What?”

  She hesitated. “Let me do a story on the clinic.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ll run it live on NewsFlash. The positive publicity will force the government to refinance the clinic.”

  “I don’t know, Sara,” he said. “It might piss off Washington.”

  “So what?” she countered. “You’ll have all of America on your side after this report. The politicians wouldn’t dare close you down.”

  Harvey looked down and said nothing for a few minutes.

  “Harv?”

  “Can you keep our location and identity a secret?” he asked. “No names of doctors, no names of patients, nothing like that? I won’t risk a patient’s confidentiality.”

  “No problem.”

  He looked around, his eyes misty and afraid. “If you think it will work . . .”

  “It has to,” Sara urged. “Like you said before, it’s time to let the world know.”

  Harvey nodded. “Okay, then. Do it.” He shook his head, in some vain attempt to clear it. His face fought to look cheerful. “Now let’s change subjects for a while. How are you doing?”

  “Actually,” Sara said with a hint of a smile, “I need a small favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “I need you to find me a good obstetrician.”

  Now it was Harvey’s turn to look surprised. “Jesus, Sara, are you . . . ?”

  She shrugged, trying to contain her excitement. She wanted so damn much to say yes, to see Michael’s face after a positive test result came back. “Right now, I’m just late.”

  “Maybe this is an insensitive question, but what about your career?”

  “No problem there. I can still tape the shows up until the birth and the networks love the publicity of a maternity leave. Boosts ratings through the roof.”

  “Can you be at Columbia Presbyterian tomorrow morning at ten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Ask for Dr. Carol Simpson. She’ll know you’re coming.” He paused, his voice becoming serious. “I know you and Michael have been trying for a long time, Sara. Have you told him?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather wait for the results of the test. I don’t want to build up his hopes if it’s just another false alarm.”

  “Do you mind if I meet you there?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  “Harvey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget to talk to Michael about his stomach. He won’t say anything, but it’s really giving him some problems.”

  “I’ll speak to him right away.”

  GEORGE sat in his car behind lush shrubbery at the foot of Dr. Lowell’s driveway. He checked his gold Piaget. Getting late. The party was winding down now. Most of the guests had already left.

  George had been sitting in the car for hours, watching while his intended victim drove up the driveway in a shiny limousine. The poor soul was in the large mansion now, enjoying Dom Pérignon champagne and foie gras, hobnobbing with the jet set, never knowing that in a few hours the knife in George’s hand would slit open his arteries and extinguish his life forever.

  He examined the stiletto blade front and back. Even in the dark, it gleamed menacingly.

  A limousine drove down the driveway and past him. George looked up. He recognized the license plate immediately. The familiar adrenaline coursed through his veins.

  He turned the ignition key and followed.

  4

  IT was a two-on-one fast break. Michael had faced hundreds of them in his career, maybe thousands. He watched as the New York Knicks’ number one draft pick, a scrawny black kid from Memphis State named Jerome Holloway, dribbled toward him with lightning speed. On Jerome’s left ran the Knicks’ second-round pick, Mark Boone, a big white guy from Brigham Young who looked like a giant farmhand. The two kids bore down on the old veteran with determination in their eyes.

  Come to Papa, Michael thought.

  Michael knew better than anyone how to defend two men against one: confuse them—especially the man dribbling the ball. The key was to make the Holloway kid throw an errant pass or to stall him long enough for Michael’s teammates, his reinforcements, to arrive.

  Michael head-faked back and forth, alternating between blocking Holloway’s trail to the basket and picking up the free man, Boone. He looked, he thought, suspiciously like a man having a fit. But that was okay—better to shake up the rookies.

  Jerome Holloway headed straight toward the basket. At the last moment Michael stepped in his way. Jerome leaped, his eyes desperately seeking Boone streaking down the other side. Michael almost smiled. Once Holloway’s feet had left the ground, he had committed. A mistake. A pure rookie mistake. Predictably, the kid looked panicky and began to move his arms toward his chest, preparing to throw the ball to Boone.

  Like taking candy from a baby.

  Michael slid between the two, readying himself to steal the pass and head back down the court for a fast break in his favor. He had done the same thing countless times before. Games had been decided by such a switch in momentum. Michael stepped forward and extended his hand into the passing lane, just as Holloway was about to release the ball.

  But Holloway pulled back. The passing movement and panicked expression had been a fake. Completely out of position now, Michael watched while Holloway grinned, cupped the ball between his hand and forearm, and glided toward the cylinder. The dunk crashed through the basket with remarkable force. The backboard vibrated from the assault.

  Holloway landed and turned toward Michael. The grin was still on his face.

  Out of breath, Michael managed, “I know, I know. In my face, right?”

  Jerome shrugged. “You said it, old dude, not me. But I do love playing against legends.”

  “This is just practice, kid. We’re on the same team.”

  “Knicks to the end. By the way, nice shorts.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “Pink and aqua flowers? Very hip.”

  They ran up court. Sweat soaked all ten players running through the scrimmage. Their bodies glistened in the dim light. Michael felt hot, tired, and a touch out of shape. His stomach was not helping matters much.

  The upcoming season would be Michael’s twelfth with the New York Knicks. He had begun, like Holloway, as a number one draft pick. Coming out of Stanford at age twenty-two, Michael had been a superstar his first year in the NBA, winning the Rookie of the Year Award and making the All-Star team. That same year the Knicks went from l
ast place in the Eastern Conference to second place—a twenty-game swing-around. The next year Michael led them to the finals, where they lost in a seven-game showdown to the Phoenix Suns. Two years later he collected his first NBA championship ring. He had won three in his career with the Knicks, been named to the All-Star team ten times, and been the league’s leader in steals and assists for eight seasons.

  Not bad for an old dude.

  Michael, an all-purpose shooting guard, did it all. There were many who could score like him, a few who could rebound like him, a couple who could pass like him, but next to none who could play defense like him. Add it all up and you had the kind of player every championship team needs.

  “What’s the matter, Michael? Feeling your age? Haul ass!”

  Michael could hear himself suck in air. The voice belonged to the Knicks’ new head coach, Richie Crenshaw. Richie had been a second-round pick by the Boston Celtics the same year Michael was drafted by the Knicks. There had been something of a rivalry between the two during Crenshaw’s playing days, but for the most part it was an amicable rivalry. The two men always got along off the court. Now Richie Crenshaw was Michael’s coach and still his good friend.

  Eat shit, Richie, Michael shouted. But only to himself.

  His lungs burned in his chest; his throat was dry. He was getting older, goddamn it—even though the gods of health had smiled upon Michael for his first ten-plus NBA seasons. No injuries. He had had a boating accident a few years ago, but that took place off-season, so it didn’t count. Only two games missed in almost ten full seasons and those were the result of a minor groin pull. Remarkable, really. Unheard of. Then something must have really pissed off the gods. Michael had landed wrong in a game against the Washington Bullets, twisting his knee. To make matters worse, Big Burt Wesson, the Bullets’ 270-pound enforcer, crashed into Michael on the play. Michael’s foot remained firmly planted on the floor. His knee did not. It bent the wrong way—backward in fact. There was a snapping sound, and Michael’s scream filled the stadium.

  Out of basketball for more than a year.