Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

The son of a bitch already knows about Jenkins, Harvey thought.

But how? And why didn't I think of this before? What the hell is going on here?

At last Raymond Markey broke the silence.

"But of course," he said, "we both know that Bradley Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic so you have nothing to worry about. The deaths are nothing but an awful coincidence. Goodbye, Dr. Riker."

Raymond Markey put down the phone. In front of his desk Reverend Sanders sat smiling. Such an eerie smile, Raymond thought. So genuinely jolly, friendly, gentle. Not sinister at all.

What a mask it was. Incredible really as incredible as the man himself. Markey knew Sanders' history. Poor boy from the south.

Father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. Mother was a drunk. Sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out of poverty, stampeding over anything that got in his way.

He was shrewd. He knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a power base. His influence had started with the poor and uneducated and now stretched into some of Washington's most powerful circles.

Including mine, Markey thought.

"Done," Markey said, standing. He adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a picture frame. Raymond Markey always wore red ties.

They had become something of a trademark over the years.

Red ties and thick glasses.

"Good," Sanders said.

"Has your source come up with anything new?"

"Nothing. Just what we already know. A camera crew has been hanging out at the clinic, but everything is being kept hush hush

The reverend shook his head seriously.

"Not a good sign.

They might go public with Michael Silverman's illness."

"You don't think my call will stop them?" Markey asked.

Sanders thought a moment.

"I don't think Riker would dare publicize Jenkins' connection to the murders," he said.

"But if they've decided to go public with Michael Silverman, I don't see how your conversation with Riker is going to dissuade them."

"Maybe we should forget this whole thing," Raymond said tentatively.

"It may have gone too far already."

Sanders looked at him with burning eyes.

"Are you trying to back out, Raymond?"

"No, it's just-"

"Do I have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission? You were the one who never trusted Riker, disliked him personally and professionally. And I have that videotape right-" "No!" Markey shouted. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his breathing shallow. His voice grew calmer.

"I'm still behind you one hundred percent, but you have to admit the conspiracy is cracking."

Sanders' smile returned.

"Conspiracy is such an ugly word," he said.

"I see it as more of a holy mission. The Lord is behind us in our crusade to do His work." Straight from his TV show, Markey thought in disgust.

Sanders' "holy mission" was to tell the world that Armageddon was upon them. And what better proof of the oncoming apocalypse than the AIDS epidemic.

After all, Reverend Sanders would shout into the microphone, AIDS is the modern equivalent of the plagues of Egypt. It strikes down the immoral without mercy. Yes, my friends, God is preparing for the final battle. For Armageddon. God has sent down a clear sign that we cannot ignore. God has sent down this incurable plague to rid the planet of the perverted, hedonistic scum. And soon the final battle between good and evil will be upon us, amen, praise the Lord. Who will be ready?

Who will bask in the light of God, and who will join the AIDS carriers in the fires of hell? We must arm ourselves for this battle, my friends, and we need your help to do it. Now is the time for those with untainted souls to give and give generously.

Then Sanders would show a few slides of how God's plague could ravage and pillage a human body into scraps of useless tissue and marrow. His mesmerized, horrified followers would stare at the screen in terror while the contribution baskets were passed among them. From the pulpit Sanders would watch the baskets fill and then overflow with green.

Ah, but if AIDS were somehow cured, if the Lord's plague were somehow lifted... well, that could throw a real socket wrench into Reverend Sanders' interpretation of the gospel.

Strange thing was, Raymond was convinced that Sanders really believed most of it. Oh, he knew how to fake a miracle and he sure liked siphoning off a lot of money, but he honestly felt that he was doing God's work here. When Sanders compared AIDS with biblical plagues, he saw a direct correlation. Why, he once asked Raymond, was it so hard to believe that God could function in the twentieth century just as well as he had in Biblical times? Did people think God had lost his power over the centuries?

"The point remains," Markey said.

"We're losing the base of our support."

"You're wrong, Raymond. They are still with us."

"How can you say that? Senator Jenkins "

"Stephen is grieving right now," Sanders interrupted.

"It must have been a terrible blow to find his son was an immoral pervert.

He will rejoin us when he comes to his senses."

Raymond looked at him incredulously.

"You can't be serious.

You know what he did. He sold us out."

"Yes, I know. And I don't like it. But he is still a powerful senator and we need him. I want you to call him, Raymond. Tell him I expect to see him at our next meeting."

"And when is that going to be?"

Ernest Sanders shrugged.

"Depends," he said.

"If Michael Silverman goes public with his illness, then I want you to call an emergency meeting right away. All of us."

"All of us? But Silverman is John Lowell's son-in-law."

Sanders chuckled lightly.

"Don't worry about Dr. Lowell. I'll take care of him." He stood, put on his coat, and walked to the door.

"After all," he reminded Markey, "John Lowell is one of us."

Harvey stormed into Michael's room, his eyes wide with panic.

"Sara, thank God I found you."

She was sitting on the side of Michael's bed. Sara and Michael had been going over his press statement. They had decided to make it as brief as possible.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Where is Donald Parker?" Harvey asked.

"He should be here in a few moments. What's going on?"

Harvey's words rushed out.

"You have to speak with him.

He can't mention Bradley Jenkins' connection to the clinic."

"Why not?"

"Because it could jeopardize everything." Harvey quickly recounted his conversation with Assistant Secretary Markey, his sentences stumbling against one another.

"If Markey finds out I left Bradley's name off the progress reports, I could lose the clinic. All our findings would be labeled invalid." "Could they do that?" Michael asked.

"Markey will certainly give it his best shot. He's itching for an excuse to reallocate our funds. This would be just what he needs. We can't let him find out Bradley was treated here."

Sara nodded.

"I'll speak to Donald as soon as he gets here."

Cassandra woke up in a familiar state of disorientation and pain. The disorientation came from not knowing where she was, the pain from a massive hangover. The disorientation usually lasted only a few moments, just until her mind could scrape together enough outside stimuli to reconstruct the previous evening. The pain customarily clung to her a little longer.

"Harvey?" she called out.

No answer.

She groaned. She clasped her head between both hands, but the internal jack-hammer continued to rip through her temples.

By exerting herself, she was able to pry open both eyelids. She squinted in the harsh light, though the shades were pulled and all the lights were out. In fact, the room was fairly dark.

She groaned again.