Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

"What kind of statement?" Reece asked.

"Hell if I know."

Jerome Holloway exchanged a confused glance with Reece.

"And it's being covered on national television?"

"That's right," Coach Crenshaw replied.

"I don't get it," Reece said.

"What the hell could Mikey have to say that a prime time news show would want to cover live?"

"Something about his hepatitis, I guess."

Reece shook his head.

Sports Channel or ESPN might be interested in covering something like that but not CBS."

"Besides," Jerome added, "the press already knows about his hepatitis."

Coach Crenshaw shrugged.

"Beats the hell out of me. Turn on the TV, Jerome, and we'll find out."

The rookie walked over to the set and flicked the switch.

Michael's teammates and coaches stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the screen. Most of their faces displayed a sense of relaxed curiosity. But not Recce's. Something didn't make sense to him. An athlete, no matter how popular, does not make a live statement on a news show unless it is big news. Really big news. Something that transcended sports.

As Reece Porter watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium, an awful feeling of dread flooded his chest.

George was in the middle of doing his third set of one hundred push-ups, his muscles bunching and swelling with each repetition, when he heard the advertising teaser:

"Stay tuned for a very special episode of Newsflash. What's the connection between a surprise statement from basketball great Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, and the story of the year about the AIDS epidemic? Watch Newsflash and see. Next on CBS."

George froze. Michael Silverman, husband of Sara Lbwell, son-in-law of John Lowell. Silverman had been at the charity ball on the night that George killed Bradley Jenkins. Now he was going to make a surprise statement on live television.

George wanted to hear what he had to say. He wanted to hear very much.

Of course an announcement by someone like Michael Silverman was hardly reason for concern, but what else had the TV blurb said? Something about a connection to the Gay Slasher.

Well, that should be interesting. And then there was the last thing that voice on the TV had said the story of the year on the AIDS epidemic. George shook his head. It was too much of a coincidence.

Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, the AIDS epidemic.

Someone had tied a few loose ends together.

The real question for George concerned Michael Silverman's announcement. The police already knew about the connection between the murder victims and the AIDS clinic, so it had only been a matter of time before it leaked to the press. But what did it have to do with Sara Lowell's husband? Was Michael Silverman connected with the murders? And if so, how?

Careful, George. Your job is to eliminate them, not figure out why.

True, but a man had to watch his back. George was being forced to take greater risks than normal. The Gay Slasher had become high-profile stuff. Now that the scrutiny was intensifying, logic dictated that he should learn more about the "why" of these killings in order to protect himself.

Damn it, why hadn't he checked this whole thing out beforehand?

Sloppy work, George. Very unprofessional.

George sprang up off the floor as the commercial ended. He' sat on the edge of the large bed and watched as Michael and

Sara walked toward the podium. Sara Lowell was very beautiful.

Incredible looking. Turning his gaze to Michael, George felt a sharp pang of envy.

That lucky son of a bitch slept with Sara Lowell every night.

George shook his head. Sometimes life was just not fair.

"I'm home," Max Bernstein called out.

"I'm in the bedroom," Lenny replied.

"Did you pick up some milk?"

"Yep. And a six-pack of Diet Coke."

Lenny walked into the den and kissed Max lightly on the lips.

"Tired?"

"Exhausted. How about you?"

Lenny nodded, taking the bundle from Max's arm.

"I spent seven hours in court for a case that was never called."

"What happened?"

"My client didn't show."

"Skipped his bail?"

"Seems so."

Bernstein shrugged.

"We cops catch them. You lawyers let them go."

"Yeah, but without us you'd be out of a job. By the way, I ordered a pizza. I figured you wouldn't want to go out."

"You figured right."

Lenny carried the bag to the kitchen.

"Are you going to be working this weekend?"

"Huh?"

"Stop biting your nails for two seconds and listen. Are you going to be working this weekend?"

"Probably, why?"

"It's my weekend with Melissa."

Melissa was Lenny's twelve-year-old daughter.

"I'll try to be around."

"I'd appreciate it. Oh, I rented that movie you wanted to see."

Max picked up the phone and dialed.

"Can't watch it tonight.

Newsflash is on in a few minutes."

"I almost forgot." Lenny came out of the kitchen.

"Max?"

"What?"

"Get your fingers out of your mouth before I shove them down your throat."

"Sorry."

"And who are you calling?"

"My apartment."

"Such a waste."

"Lenny, don't start."

"Why have you kept that empty apartment for six years? All you have in there is a telephone and an answering machine."

"You know why."

"Oh, that's right. You're afraid someone is going to find out you live with gasp-oh-gasp! a man. That you're an honest to-God, screaming faggot."

"Lenny.

"So you keep your swinging bachelor pad on 87th Street for show no, because you're paranoid. Wouldn't it be cheaper just to tell everyone that we're two single, homo studs who happen to live together?

Something like in Three Men And A Baby."

"What are you babbling about?"

"Three Men And A Baby. You remember the movie. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson, and Steve Guttenberg were all single and sharing an apartment and nobody worried about their sexual preferences. And what about Oscar and Felix on The Odd Couple?

Murray the cop never thought they were getting it on."

No messages on the machine. Max hung up the phone.

"You're a nag."

"And trim your mustache already. You look like Gene Shalit."

"Nag, nag. Did you feed Simon yet?"

"A few minutes ago. He ate eight goldfish the other day and he's downing another half dozen now. Want to watch?"

"I think I'll pass."

Lenny shrugged.

"He's your snake."

Max had bought Simon, a harmless garden snake, on a whim two years ago.

He thought it would be kind of cool to own a pet snake. Max, however, had overlooked one small problem he was scared to death of snakes. He loved Simon, liked to watch him slide about his cage and slither up to the screen on the top.

But he was afraid to touch him or go near him, for that matter.

And worse, the only thing Simon ate were live goldfish, which he caught in his laser-quick mouth and swallowed whole. You could actually see the outline of the struggling fish as it slid down Simon's thin body.

Gross.

Luckily, Lenny had taken a liking to Simon a rather sick liking, as a matter of fact. Lenny enjoyed inviting friends over to watch the feeding; they bet on which fish would be the last one eaten.

Very gross.

The doorbell rang. Lenny opened the door, paid the delivery boy, and brought the pizza into the den. Max watched him, remembering how his life had changed when he first saw Lenny's gentle eyes seven years ago.

1984, a year of transition.

The nights of anonymous sex, orgies in Soho, leather bars, and Caligula-like bathhouses were beginning to melt away under the blistering heat of the AIDS epidemic. Though he had lived in constant fear of being found out, Max had participated in it all.

How many lovers had he had? He had lost count. How many friends had he lost to the AIDS virus? That number too he had lost count. So many taken away, and now the dead were little more than a blurry blend of faces, vivacious young men whose lives had been suddenly, painfully, snuffed out. They were gone now and too often forgotten.