Miracle Cure

Chapter 17

"Dad?"
Dr. John Lowell turned toward his older daughter.
"Yes, Cassandra?"
She licked her lips nervously.
"Where are you going?"
"On a business trip.
"I'll be home tonight."
"Where?"
He put down his briefcase.
"Why are you so interested?"
"Just tell me where."
"Washington."
Cassandra closed her eyes.
"You're going to meet with them again, aren't you?" "Meet with whom again?" he asked, his voice a mixture of annoyance and fear.
"What are you talking about?"
"With Reverend Sanders, for one."
Silence. Then: "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she replied.
"I was here when you met with him three days ago. I was hiding in your closet."
His eyes widened.
"You what?"
She moved closer to him.
"It has to stop. You have to tell the truth before there's more bloodshed."
"Cassandra, you don't know what " She stepped in front of him.
"Don't let him blackmail you any longer."
His face grew tight.
"Stay out of this. I know what I'm doing."
"How much more blood are you going to spill? How many people have to die before you put this to a stop?"
"Get out of my way. You are talking nonsense."
"Dad..."
"Move!" He pushed her harder than he had intended. She fell to the floor.
"Cassandra!" He sprinted toward her.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," he began.
"I didn't mean to hurt " She sat up, her eyes burning.
"Get away from me."
He backed away, his face twisted into a look of longing and anguish.
"I have to go now, honey. Please trust me. I know what I'm doing.
When I come home tonight we'll talk about it, okay?
Just trust me. I love you."
He turned and hurried out the door. Cassandra stood. She was still unsure about what she should do. This was, after all, her father not some evil monster. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.
What doubt, Cassandra? What are you so afraid of?
Nothing. She would wait until tonight. She would listen to what he had to say first before jumping to any conclusions... No.
She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. It was time to tell someone before it was too late. But not Harvey. He would never be able to look at it objectively.
It was time to tell Sara.
So hot... Michael tried to stir himself to consciousness. It was no easy task.
His eyes felt stapled shut. His mind spun in figure eights.
Something was wrapped tightly around his mouth, making it hard for him to breathe.
He heard boisterous sounds all about him. Very noisy. Cars.
Horns honking. People shouting out like hot dog vendors at a baseball game. Loud rock music. Laughter. General chatter. He tried to concentrate on the sounds, tried to sift out some meaning in them, but he found it difficult. Some people were speaking English, no question about it, but others were talking in a foreign tongue that Michael's cloudy mind could not place. It sounded Chinese or something like that only more lyrical, more pleasant to the ear.
What the hell is going on?
He wondered if he was perhaps dreaming, if he was not still asleep. But how often did he dream of sounds with no vision?
No, he was awake. His eyes were closed. He was lying on a hard wood floor, his right ear numb from leaning against it. His whole body felt sore, as though he had been lying on this floor for a week, which, he surmised, was entirely possible.
He tried to sit up, but he fell back down upon the ground twice. His hands, he realized, were handcuffed together behind his back, pinning back his shoulder blades painfully.
After another failed attempt Michael managed to work himself into a sitting position. In the background he could hear someone shouting with a heavy accent, "Supergirl! Supergjrl! Come meet Supergirl! Time of your life!" With a struggle Michael's eyes fluttered and then opened. It took him another minute or two to focus and take in his surroundings. Small room. Barren. Dirty.
The walls were covered with chipped paint. A light bulb dangled from exposed wires on the ceiling. There was a fold-out chair and ratty mattress which made the room smell of mildew, sweat, and urine. There were also blood stains on it. Michael's right ankle was shackled to a pipe running through the room. His mouth had been taped shut with what tasted like masking tape. His eyes continued to scan the room until they stopped at something on the ceiling.
What the...?
He looked again. Jammed in a hole by the door were sticks of what looked like dynamite. Michael swallowed.
Where the fuck am I?
He tried to reconstruct his last conscious hours. He had been at the clinic. Harvey had given him an injection of SRI. Reece and Sara had visited him. He recalled dosing a bit while they were still in the room and finally falling asleep. And then... nothing.
The heat in the room was well past tropical, the air thick and still.
His body was coated with sweat. He tried to wipe his cheek on his shoulder, but his wet shirt just added more perspiration to the area.
He glanced about the room again. His eyes stopped when he saw a piece of paper on the floor:
Hello, Michael.
Welcome to the land of conscious. I hope you had a pleasant nap and an equally pleasant journey. Try to make yourself comfortable. Please do not try to escape. ' If by some miracle you were gone when I returned, I would hunt down your beautiful bride, fuck her, and then kill her.
Best wishes, George P.S. I have people downstairs so don't try shouting out the window.
I'm having a nightmare, Michael said to himself. That's what it is. A nightmare. Either that or I am losing my mind.
He struggled and scraped his way toward the window. The chain just reached. He lifted his head, pushed his face under the shade with his nose and looked out. If he had been only confused before, he was completely lost now. There were tons of people on the streets. Neon lights splashed across the dark sky, LIVE Sex Shows! and LIVE Nudes!
over an dover again, as though some patrons would be confused and think that they performed sex shows with dead bodies. Dark, oriental men stood outside bars, opening the door every once in a while to reveal naked dancing girls on tables, hoping the view would entice customers into their establishment. A man stood in the middle of the street with three girls, each dressed in a red cape, blue boots, and yellow body suits with a giant "S" emblazoned upon the chest. The man kept yelling out, "Supergirl! Supergirl! Spend an evening with Supergirl! She fly you to the moon and back!"
Michael spotted a young Asian boy approaching an American couple in their sixties who looked liked they belonged on a farm in the Midwest.
"You want go to sex show?" he asked in broken English, handing the couple 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 print of a real estate contract, nodded eagerly, and then followed the Asian boy.
The street was packed, waves of people heading in both directions.
There were other neon signs too. Some in English, some written in characters Michael did not understand. They were not, he knew, Chinese or 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 favorites of 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 and stocky. He appeared to be very muscular, though not as disproportionate as most weight-lifters. His hair was slicked back like Pat Riley, the former 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 of people.
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 of intimidation. Threatening a man's wife was one of his favorite tactics. It was connected to the whole possession thing, he guessed, and nothing demoralized a man more than the thought that his wife was balling another guy by force or otherwise.
George grabbed the chair from the corner, sat down, and leaned toward his 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 loudest of screams.
"We are in Bangkok. That's right, we are in the Far East, just you and me, pal. In fact, this building is on Patpong Street, the red-light district. Twelve-year-old whores suck off guys in this very room all the time, 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 nobody cares. Fact is, we're standing over a topless bar right now bottomless too 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'll have time to see the sights. The Reclining Buddha is a must-see in my opinion. Same with the Grand Palace. Maybe well even take a little boat trip through the floating market. Would you like that?" Michael just continued to stare.
"But first, let's talk business. If you do what I say, no one will be hurt 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 barely a blur. His knuckles landed on Michael's nose.
Michael heard a crunching, squelching noise and he knew that his nose had 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 still covered with the tape, he had no choice but to breathe through his broken nose. What do you want? Michael tried to scream, but the tape muffled 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 get used to it after a day or two. The thing is my employer told me to make you as comfortable as possible. So I would like to loosen some of those chains 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 spot you, and Sara will suffer. I am good at making people suffer. And Sara is such a delicate little flower, Michael. You wouldn't want me to attach 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 some miracle find you and decide to try a rescue," he paused, smiled, and nodded toward the sticks of dynamite by the door, "ka-boom! Michael all gone. 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'll break your jaw. No one will pay attention anyway. People are always screamingvm 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 unlock the 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 yard away.
Now; or never, Mikey boy.
Later, Michael would claim that pure fear clouded his brain and distorted his rational thinking. It was the only explanation for what he did next.
With something approaching horror, Michael realized that his fingers were forming a fist. His eyes watched helplessly while he cocked the fist and launched it toward George's face.
The punch moved at a pitifully slow pace. The drugs George had pumped into Michael's body continued to extract a heavy toll on his physical prowess. George's right forearm knocked the blow to the side with a casual 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 between his thumb and index finger. Michael screamed.
Then George twisted.
Tiny fragmented bones began to grate against one another, making a horrid grinding noise like someone was tap-dancing on a thousand beetles. George increased the pressure. Tendons and tissue ripped.
Blood sprayed in different directions. Michael's eyes widened and then closed, his body falling slack.
"Try something like that again," George said, "and it will be Sara who pays the price. Understand?"
Michael could barely nod before he passed out.
Cassandra looked at her sister. Sara's bright green eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into her skull. Dark circles surrounded them.
The beaming look of life had been replaced by a bleak look of incomprehension and shock. Three days had passed since she had been knocked unconscious in Michael's room three days of depression, sadness, fear, and confusion. But now it was as though those emotions had hardened into something more concrete. During the last three days Sara's hurt had transformed itself into something more powerful, something more... 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 ever been there. Her expression was hard, serious. She sat down on the bed next 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 morning after the charity ball."
"But Dad said he didn't know him." "I know. Harvey told me that. So I became suspicious. I went through his desk when he wasn't around. There were letters saying that the funds Dad wanted for the new wing at the Cancer
Center were going to Sidney Pavilion instead. One was from a guy named Markey "
"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 thought... until the morning Michael was kidnapped. When Dad kept trying to make sure I would be out of the house that morning, I became suspicious. 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 down Patpong, whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would have made a porn star blush. But no one approached George. One or two of the Thais knew 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 George walked by, letting him pass, fighting to get out of his way.
It was past midnight already, but Patpong was just beginning to stretch out its arms and prepare for the evening that lay ahead.
George brushed past a group of Japanese businessmen who were negotiating rates and terms with a local pimp as if they were sitting in a Tokyo conference room.
When George reached Rama IV Road, he hailed a tuk-tuk, the native taxi of Thailand. A cross between a car and a scooter.
The tuk- tuk had its good points it was small, quick, used up next to no fuel, and was open air. It also got crushed in an accident, had no headroom, and was open air.
The driver gave George the customary Thai greeting. He clasped his hands in a praying position, bent his head forward until his nose touched his fingertips, and said, "Sawasdee, hip."
George returned the greeting, though not bending nearly as far as the driver.
"Sawasdee."
"Where to?"
"Wats," George barked.
The driver smiled and nodded. George climbed into the bright blue tuk-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 about fifty years old. There were six prostitutes jammed into a taxi with him young Thai girls no more than thirteen, fourteen tops, giggling and rubbing 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 can 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-person thing. 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 realization that the girls found him so amusing. The girls, George knew, did not understand a word of English, with the exception of some sexual terminology.
"Go to hell," George called back.
The light turned green and the tuk-tuk moved onto Charoen Road. It noisily began its journey along the Chao Phraya River.
In Thai, wat meant temple or monastery, and Bangkok had over four hundred temples of breathtaking beauty. Color was the key word in Thai architecture. Red, yellow, green, blue, and most especially gold all reflecting the bright sun in an amazing kaleidoscope of nature and man.
There was Wat Po, which housed the Reclining Buddha a statue so immense it stretched across an area larger than half a football field. Another enormous Buddha image, cast in well over five tons of solid gold, sat upon the alter of Wat Traimit, and Wat Arum, the Temple of Dawn, appeared to be suspended above the Chao Phraya River as though held there by the gods, its towering spires reaching up and scratching the very heavens with pointy claws.
But Bangkok's most spectacular temple was known to the Thai people simply as Wats, though it was far more than just a temple.
Tourists knew it as the Grand Palace, though it was far more than that too. The Grand Royal Complex might be a better name.
Everything King Rama I, ruler of the Chakri Dynasty, could have wanted was housed within the walls which enclosed his palace, including one of the most sacred images in all of Buddhism the Emerald Buddha. In this bastion of awe-inspiring color and beauty, the Emerald Buddha stood out only for its rather startling un impressiveness The statue was only a few feet high, was made of jade, and showed no real signs of unusually brilliant handwork.
You could buy an exact reproduction for a few baht in any Thai trinket store.
"We're here, boss."
"Swing around to the other side."
"Okay, boss."
At night, spotlights illuminated the many spires and pagodas of the Grand Palace, creating an impression both bright and haunting. In a word: mysterious. Like the most seductive woman, Bangkok hinted at unparalleled 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 over toward the Chao Phraya River. He walked along the river's edge, watching the wooden rice barges drift lazily by as though they had no particular destination in mind, the drivers still wearing their enormous straw hats though the blazing sun had settled in the west hours ago. The Chao Phraya was more than a river to Bangkok. It was her lifeblood. The waterway was used for transportation, for floating food markets, for bathing.
Families had lived for centuries in huts that were more in the river than 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 skinny boy. An elderly man with only one arm and a wisp of a mustache sat in the front.
"George?" the man whispered.
Right on time as always. George climbed aboard the sampan, sat and clasped 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 Malaysian operation. Too much heat from the state police. They are not, I'm afraid, as receptive to gifts as they used to be."
"So I've heard." George looked at Surakarn's weatherbeaten face, his skin brittle like dry brown leaves. The former Thai boxing champion must be nearing seventy now, George thought, and worth countless millions of dollars. Yet Surakarn did not slow down, nor, it seemed, did he do anything with his vast wealth.
He still lived on a modest hut along the Chao Phraya, though he had long ago allowed creature comforts to enter his dwelling.
From the outside the hut looked like something from a Vietnam War documentary; inside were two big-screen televisions, VCRs, a GE refrigerator, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, a microwave, central air-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 slow journey down the Chao Phraya. Surakarn's other arm had been sliced off in Chiang Rai almost twenty-five years before by a fellow competitor in the smuggling industry named Rangood. Rangood, however, had made the mistake 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 to his shouts of agony, not his words. By the time Rangood's heart gave out several weeks later, his mind had long since snapped.
Surakarn was as trustworthy as they came, but George did not tell even him about Silverman's kidnapping. This was too big, too risky, to trust anyone. George had decided not to solicit the help of the usual local cut-throats he worked with, despite what he had written in the note to Michael. He had even gone so far as to put a mask on Michael's face when he sneaked him into the Eager Beaver.
The Chao Phraya area was quiet this evening. The gentle splashing sounds from an occasional boat enhanced the feeling of calm, of solitude. There was no mist in the air, only the stifling humidity, and yet there always seemed to be a fog rolling across the city, as though mist and fog could be detected by some sense other than sight and smell.
"Nothing changes here," George said.
Surakarn nodded.
"Bangkok is a constant."
"I need to use the safe phone."
"Of course." Surakarn pointed to a radio with a microphone.
"The radio leads to a cellular phone aboard one of my vessels near Hong Kong."
"I see."
"You asked to make a call that could not be traced. This is it."
Surakarn moved toward the far end of the boat.
"You need not fear. I will not listen."
George checked his watch. He called in the number to the captain of the drug boat in Hong Kong, who proceeded to hook him up with the United States. No matter what Surakarn claimed, the call was still, after all, traceable. The authorities could, in theory at least, figure out the call was made from a cellular phone (no doubt a stolen one) in Hong Kong. But to find out who made the call and then to find out that there was a radio hook-up to Bangkok, well, that would be nearly impossible. Worst case scenario: it would take weeks.
A few moments later George heard the voice.
"Hello."
"Perfect," George said.
"You're right on time."
"I can barely hear you," the voice said.
"Don't worry about it. We won't be on long."
"Is he all right?"
"Kne. We're having a ball together. Did you transfer the money?"
"Yes."
"All of it."
"Every last penny," the voice replied.
"How did you get it?"
"That's not your concern."
"I'll check my account tomorrow morning just to be sure. If it is not all there, my house guest will be missing a few fingers by tomorrow afternoon."
"It's all there." The voice faltered for a moment and then said, "Why did you have to kill the nurse?"
"Excuse me?"
"The nurse. Why did you have to kill her?"
"She saw me."
"But you're supposed to be an expert. How could you let that happen?"
The words stung because George knew that they were true.
He had miscalculated. That was rare. And very bothersome.
"It was just a freak thing."
"Listen to me closely: I don't want any 'freak thing7 to happen to Michael Silver "
"Don't use names, imbecile! Someone could be listening."
"What oh, sorry."
The voice was extra-taut tonight, George thought, like somebody wound so tightly he would either snap or stretch into something unrecognizable. George had not liked it when the voice was nervous.
Now he feared that his employer was beginning to lose control completely.
That was not good. It was, in fact, very bad.
"I guess I should be thankful," the voice continued.
"At least you didn't kill Sa uh, his wife."
"I was able to sneak up behind her," George replied evenly.
"She never got the chance to see me."
"Otherwise?"
"Otherwise she would be lying on a cold slab too."
"No one else is to be hurt without my say-so. Absolutely no one. Just keep a hold of you-know-who. Make sure you treat him well."
"HI do what I have to do."
"No. You listen to-" "Good-bye," George said.
"Wait. How can I reach you?"
"You can't." George had trusted his employer too much already but no more. It was time to take control.
"Just follow our plan." He snapped off the radio.
"Surakarn?"
"Yes?"
He tried to smile, but he was still distracted.
"I feel good. Let's take a little ride."
"Where to?"
"I just came into a lot of money."
"Congratulations."
"Tell me, Surakarn, can a man still buy anything in Bangkok?"
Surakarn smiled toothlessly.
"Do you still like them older?"
He nodded.
"She has to be at least twenty."
Jennifer Hiker's whole body shook. Over the past three days she had read the press reports, seen the news of Michael's kidnapping on the television, witnessed the outrage of a country.
But Jennifer felt more than outrage.
She felt fear.
Susan was going to be home in another two days, but Jennifer now knew that she could no longer wait until then. She had been wrestling with her decision for three days now and had come to the decision that the stakes were too high for her to hold back.
Michael's life might depend upon her actions.
But when she reached over and picked up the packet, her mind started to vacillate again. No evidence, after all, linked this mailing with the Gay Slasher or the kidnapping. No evidence at all. These were just standard medical files and lab samples.
Period. That was it.
Then why had Bruce mailed them the day he committed suicide? And why had three of the patients listed in the files Trian, Whitherson, and Martino been murdered? Coincidence?
She thought not.
She wavered long enough. The note written to Susan, well, that was Susan's and there was no way Jennifer was going to open it. But the other contents in the packet were not personal. The files were not, she knew, for everyone's eyes, but there was one person who might make sense of it, one person who might be able to piece together why Bruce felt the need to mail it to a seldom-used address on the day he died.
Jennifer picked up the phone and dialed Harvey's private extension.
Enough lying around.
Sara threw the blankets off her body, stood, and took hold of her cane.
The inactivity, the babying, the looks of pity all behind her now. She had to stop crying. She had to get up and act. She had to find out what was happening and who was behind all of this.
She had to save her husband.
"Where are you going?" Cassandra asked.
"To speak with Max and Harvey. They're at the clinic." "Wait a second," Cassandra said.
"You can't tell anyone about this yet not even Max and Harvey. This is still Dad we're talking about."
Sara nodded.
"I know. I won't say a word about him until we speak to him tonight.
"I'll meet you at the house at eight o'clock."
The sisters embraced. Then Sara left for the clinic. She arrived at the door of the third floor lab a half hour later.
"I want to know everything," she said.
Max and Harvey turned toward the lab door.
"Sara," Harvey began, "what are you doing here? You should be-"
"I should be right here," she interrupted.
"Max and I are doing all we can," Harvey continued in a calm voice.
"Why don't you go back home and rest? Well let you know if anything changes."
"Don't patronize me, Harvey."
"I'm not patronizing. I'm trying to do what's best for your health." She continued to stare at them, her eyes both wide and defiant.
"I'm fine. I want to know what you've learned."
Harvey's next protest was cut off by Max.
"Then come over and sit down," Max said.
"We don't have time to argue."
Sara limped over to the table and pulled out a chair.
"Okay, what have you got?"
"A few things," Max said.
"First, we've been going over the files of the murdered patients."
"Learn anything?"
"Maybe," Max said, his leg shaking up and down.
"Maybe not. They were killed in almost the same order they got here.
Trian and Whitherson were both original patients at the clinic and Martino came in a couple of months later. The other three cured patients Krutzer, Leander, and Singer all came in about a year later."
"what's that mean?"
Max hesitated, his fingers entwined in his own hair.
"I don't know," he said.
"It might mean nothing, but something about it bothers me."
"How does Bradley fit in?" she asked.
"Or... or Michael?"
"They don't really. They have no similarity to the other three victims or for that matter to the three who are still alive. In fact, the only similarity I can see is that both Bradley and Michael were V. I.P patients."
Harvey snapped his fingers.
"But maybe that's it. Maybe the killer is after the important patients, not merely the cured patients."
"Could be," Max shrugged.
"But that raises the larger question why kill four patients, one nurse, and presumably one doctor and not kill Michael?"
Harvey looked at Sara hesitantly.
"Excuse me for suggesting this," he began carefully, "but we really don't know if Michael is alive, do we? The killer may have just moved his body."
"It wouldn't make sense," Max replied.
"Kill him at the clinic and then move him out? Very risky."
Harvey was about to point out that Bradley Jenkins had met a similar fate but chose not to push it in front of Sara.
"Okay, let's move on."
The intercom on the table buzzed. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Riker?"
Harvey lifted the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Riker is on line 6," the receptionist said.
"Take a message." "She said it's urgent."
"Sure. Her alimony payment is probably a week late. Tell her I'll call her back." Harvey replaced the receiver in its cradle.
"Nothing important. Go on."
Sara nodded, struggling in her ongoing battle against coming apart.
"How do you think the kidnapper got in and out of the clinic?"
"We think he used a secret entrance," Max replied.
"There is a small tunnel in the basement that leads to an apartment building two doors down. Somehow, he found out about it."
"How?" "I don't know," Max said.
"Then someone has to be giving out information on this place," Sara said.
"And what about the timing, Max? Markey decides to use Michael as a guinea pig and the next thing you know he vanishes. It has to be related."
Max quickened his pace, his teeth working on a stubborn hangnail.
"Agreed."
"Hold on a second," Harvey interrupted.
"This makes no sense. No one has access to that kind of information, except..."
He stopped.
Max stopped.
"Except whom?" he prodded.
Harvey shook his head.
"No one."
As if on cue, Winston O'Connor came around the doorway.
"Hey, gang," he drawled.
"What's going on?" "Where the hell have you been?" Harvey almost shouted.
Winston looked confused.
"No reason to bite my head off, Harv. Hell, I went fishing. Stayed in the family summer cabin on the lake. Caught the hugest humdinger of a fish "
"Don't you get a newspaper?"
"Shit, no. We don't even have a phone out there." He stopped, looked around.
"Now what in the hell is going on around here?"
Max walked toward the chief lab technician.
"Will you excuse us a moment?" he said to Harvey and Sara.
"I'd like to speak with Winston alone."