Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

"Interesting," Max said.

"To be frank," Harvey continued, "I wasn't crazy about treating Martino."

"Why not?"

"Because he was a lousy candidate. For one thing, he was a heroin addict." "Then why did you?" Sara asked.

"With so many good candidates willing to give anything a try, why would you choose Martino?"

"Because we wanted a cross section of patients not just gay men. So Bruce brought Martino in. Brace liked Martino. He believed in him." "And you didn't?" Sara continued.

Harvey shrugged.

"Intravenous drug abusers, by and large, are a rather sordid group. I confess I'm no big fan of treating IVDAs not for any moral reason but simply because they are unreliable data. Addicts cannot be trusted. On top of that, most of them are already unhealthy from a lifetime of abusing their bodies, which makes their chances of fighting the disease that much slimmer."

"Then what do you think killed him, Doctor?" Max asked.

"I don't know." He paused to gather his thoughts.

"I just don't understand it. I was in this room less than an hour ago."

"Before you got hit on the head?"

"Right before."

"And Martino appeared fine?"

"He was breathing, if that's what you mean. Look, Martino was not the healthiest man alive, but he had nothing that would have lead to an acute death like this. And with the prowler in here tonight and all... it just seems like a hell of a coincidence."

Max folded his arms across his chest, his face twisted in heavy thought.

"If Martino was murdered, it puts this whole thing in a new light."

"What do you mean?" Harvey asked.

"New M. O." for one," he answered.

"No stabbing," Sara agreed.

"But what about Brace?" Harvey said.

"He wasn't stabbed either."

Bernstein nodded slowly and began to pace.

"Let's slow down a minute. Five people are dead, four patients, one doctor. Three Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were stabbed to death under similar, though not identical, circumstances." "We know all this," Harvey said impatiently.

"Just bear with me, okay? What do the three patients have in common?"

"They were gay," Sara began, "and they were all being treated at the same AIDS clinic."

"Now add Martino to the list, assuming he too was murdered."

"Then we can rule out a gay basher," Harvey noted.

"Martino was heterosexual." His beeper went off.

"Damn, I have to go."

"I'll need to speak to you later," Max said.

"I also want to see your files on the murder victims."

Harvey nodded and left. Bernstein stopped pacing and looked toward Sara gently.

"You must be exhausted. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"I feel fine."

"Sara..."

"Don't start this shit with me, Max. Crying and moping around is not going to help. I need something to distract me."

Max nodded, understanding.

"Okay, where were we?"

"Riccardo Martino."

"Right. Add him into the equation and what makes them all similar?"

"Two things," Sara answered.

"AIDS and the clinic. Like Harvey said, we can eliminate the gay connection since Martino was heterosexual."

"Okay, now let's move on to Dr. Bruce Grey. Add him to Whitherson, Trian, Jenkins, and Martino. Now what is the common denominator?"

"Only one thing," Sara answered.

"The clinic. Someone is targeting people associated with the Sidney Pavilion."

Max did not respond right away. He just looked off, his head slowly shaking, his teeth locating another corner of fingernail on which he could gnaw.

"We're missing something here," he said finally, "something big."

"Like?"

"Hell if I know."

"Do you think someone is trying to sabotage the clinic?"

"Could be."

She glanced at the clock above the door.

"I have to get back to Michael now. He'll be waking up in a little while."

"I'm going to check through Dr. Riker's patient files."

"Okay. I'll see you later."

"Sara? One other thing?"

"Yesr

"I'm saying this as a friend, not a police officer."

"Go ahead."

"You're blocking on Michael. It's going to hit you soon."

She moved to the door.

"I know, Max. Thanks."

He could hear the running water.

"No, no please..."

"Shut up, you whining punk."

Seven- year-old Michael looked up, his eyes tainted with fear. His stepfather was leaning over the tub. His blue work shirt, the name Marty sewed on the breast pocket in red script, was unbuttoned, revealing a ripped white T-shirt underneath. Marty's face contorted into a look of pure, dumb anger and hate. His breath reeked of liquor and tobacco.

"Get over here, Michael!"

"Please..."

"If I have to chase you, boy..." He never finished the sentence, allowing Michael's imagination to do it instead.

Michael tried to run, but his feet felt glued to the floor. He could not move. Marty reached his hand out and took Michael by the hair.

He tugged him forward and then down, forcing Michael's head under the water.

"You gonna mess around in my room again?" Marty shouted.

Michael could not answer. He could not breathe. He flailed his head back and forth, searching for air. But there was none. Water went down his throat and he began to choke.

Marty's grip tightened. His hand held firm.

"I didn't hear you, boy. You gonna mess around in my room again?"

Pressure built up in Michael's head. His lungs felt like they were about to burst. He could hear the water splash around him... Michael shot up out of bed. Sweat coated his skin.

Just a dream.

He looked around, almost expecting to see Marty's face in the corner of the darkened room. But his stepfather was not there.

Michael was alone in the clinic. The AIDS clinic. He had AIDS.

From the hallway he could hear water running. Someone washing up.

Someone cleaning out something. No reason to be scared.

He swung his legs out of the bed and stood. His body still trembled from the power of the dream, but at least he didn't feel any of the SRI side effects yet. He wrapped his arms around his chest and moved toward the window. He looked out. Not much of a view. Just a dirty alley. Garbage strewn everywhere. Two homeless men playing cards.

Overturned tin cans. Cats chewing on a chicken bone. The only thing that hinted at the sanitary conditions within the building was a startlingly clean white truck with the inscription

"Recovery Corporation of America Medical Waste Disposal" painted across its side.

Michael continued to stare.

Random thoughts and emotions ricocheted through his mind.

They moved so quickly that he could not make complete sense of them, like trying to read a license plate as a car speeds by you.

He tried to slow them down, but it was impossible. He caught just glimpses. In the end, one word became clear, blocking out all others:

Sara.

Funny, but Michael was not afraid of dying. Leaving Sara frightened him more. Alone. With the baby. The future meant something to him now. He had a stake in it, responsibilities. He wanted to stay with Sara, with the baby. So why did this happen now? Why show him what could be only to take it away?

Enough self-pity, Michael. You're making me sick.

He thought about the press conference he would have to give tonight on Newsflash and wondered what he was going to say.

He could just imagine the questions the reporters were going to hurl at him gleefully:

"Have you always been gay?..."

"Did your wife know?..."

"How about your teammates?..."

"How many boyfriends have you had?..."

And oh God, Sara, what am I doing to you? he asked himself.

All I ever wanted to do was protect you. Now, I'm throwing you in the middle of this. I wish I didn't have to. I wish I could just ignore it, blind myself from the truth. But I can't. Why should you have to suffer anymore? Part of me wants to push you away, to shield you from going through this whole AIDS shit with me.