Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

Why, Max wondered, did we all gorge ourselves on nameless, faceless sex? Was it merely for the physical thrill or was there something more? Were we trying to rebel? Or were we just releasing the pent-up anxieties of living too repressed for years in a straight society? What were we looking for in that mass of flesh? Or more important, what were we running away from?

Over the past seven years Bernstein had had more than twenty AIDS tests performed on himself all under assumed names and all negative. A stroke of luck and yet sometimes he felt guilty for not having contracted the virus, like an Auschwitz survivor wondering why he was still alive.

Lenny, on the other hand, had come from a conservative family. He married his high school sweetheart at the age of nineteen and they had a daughter a year later. He tried to suppress and deny his true sexual orientation, and for a while it worked. But by the fourth year of their marriage, he and his wife Emily knew that the heterosexual facade had finally cracked and broken away. The truth was revealed to their families, and Emily and Lenny parted as friends.

Max turned on the television. The two sat quietly on the couch, watching the television and holding hands.

Lenny leaned his head on Max's shoulder.

"I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, you know."

"Yeah, I guess you are."

A few minutes later they watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium.

"Dad?" Cassandra called.

John Lowell did not respond. He continued to stare down at the old photograph.

"What are you looking at?" she asked softly.

He sighed deeply and placed the photograph down gently as though it were delicate porcelain.

"Nothing," he replied.

Cassandra crossed the room. As she suspected, her father had been staring at a picture of her mother. Tears flooded her eyes.

"I miss her too," she said.

"She loved you very much, Cassandra. She wanted you to be happy."

Cassandra nodded, reaching out her hand and touching the image of her mother.

"Sara just called."

"Where has she been?"

"She wouldn't say. She said we'd find out on Newsflash."

"On News Flash What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

John reached out, and for the first time in many years father and daughter embraced. Cassandra snuggled closer, feeling the wool sweater brush up against her. For a moment she forgot about the letters she had found in his desk. She forgot about Reverend Sanders' voice in her father's study, and she even forgot her own crazy suspicions. He was her father. She felt so right in his arms, like a small child again, so safe and warm and content and yet... "You're my whole world," he whispered.

"You and Sara."

They clung to each other with an odd sort of need. The need was surprisingly strong, like a ravenous hunger that grew as you ate.

Neither spoke, but they both knew that they were thinking the same thing. They could not say how they knew each other's thoughts, nor could they explain the awful feeling of doom that permeated the room.

This should have been a happy, tender moment, but something was lurking around the corner, something that wanted to rip and shred and destroy.

Cassandra broke away and they both looked at each other uncomfortably, as though they shared an embarrassing secret.

"The show's coming on."

"Right," he said.

They left the room then, no longer holding hands nor even touching.

Still, the warmth of his embrace stayed with Cassandra like a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She watched her father turn on the television and felt a wave of love overwhelm her. He was such a gentle man, she told herself, a man who had dedicated his entire life to healing others. He would never hurt anyone. Never. She was sure of it. Positive. Her suspicions were nonsense. After all, a couple of letters and a meeting with Reverend Sanders hardly meant he was guilty of some sort of wrongdoing. As a matter of fact it meant nothing at all. She was glad that she had not told Harvey about the letters, that she had not betrayed her own father's trust.

Cassandra sat back now, relieved, confident, and trying like hell to ignore the irritating voice of doubt that still echoed in her head.

Flashbulbs worked like a strobe light, giving the illusion that Sara and Michael were moving in slow motion. They reached the podium together. Michael stepped forward while Sara stood behind him and to the side. Michael's head was lowered, his eyes closed. A few moments later he lifted his head high and faced the crowded room of reporters.

Sara watched him. He looked handsome in his grey suit with a solid blue tie, but the clothes were just not him. There were no wild splashes of color, no yellow and green paisley, no purple floral pattern, no funky polka dots so drab and... and lifeless for him. His face, somber, ashen, tired, matched the look.

He took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. His fingers unfolded it and his palm smoothed it out against the podium.

He glanced down at the statement, but he did not read the words.

His hand pushed the paper to the side and slowly his face tilted upwards. Then he just stood there for a few moments and said nothing.

Through the glare of flashbulbs, Sara could sense the unease in the audience. Murmurs began to stir and strengthen through the press corps. She moved closer to Michael, took his hand in hers and squeezed. The coldness of his hand startled her. Then he did something very strange. He turned toward her and smiled not a fake or tired smile, but a genuine, beautiful Michael smile. It comforted her and frightened her at the same time. The smile slipped away from his lips slowly as he turned back to the microphone.

"Yesterday," Michael began, "I learned that I have contracted the AIDS virus."

Immediate silence. The murmurs ceased as though they had been on a tape recorder that had been switched off.

"I am entering a private clinic which you will hear more about during this program. That's all I have to say. Thank you."

He stepped back, smiled anew at Sara, and took her hand.

"Let's get out of here."

The press attacked with both barrels.

"How long have you been gay, Michael?"

"Sara, how long have you known your husband was homosexual?"

"Is the marriage a farce?"

"Have you had sex with any of your teammates?"

With each question Michael involuntarily winced. Finally, he stepped back toward the podium to set the record straight. When he reached the microphone and the room fell silent, Michael turned away without saying a word. He bent down and kissed Sara's cheek.

"Like I said before, let's get out of here."

Harvey watched the report alone.

Being alone was fine with him. That was how it should be.

Cassandra had been a mistake from the start. Talk about your basic self-delusion he must have been taking major mind expanding drugs to think someone like her could be interested in someone like him.

Besides, he had the clinic. He could not afford distractions that would hinder his concentration and affect his work negatively.

He shook his head. Enough of this. There were much more important things to worry about than his creature comforts.

Harvey pushed Cassandra clear out of his mind and focused on the Newsflash report.

Donald Parker was doing an excellent job, presenting the facts without too much innuendo. To help the clinic keep its anonymity, the report did not give the name or address of the Pavilion. Thank God for that.

Harvey could just imagine the riots if the clinic's name and address were used in the report. Talk about bedlam.

Better still, only Eric's name was used in the report. The name of the "chief researcher" was left out. Perfect. Couldn't be better.

Parker had even given an 800 telephone number and an address for those who wanted to make donations to the clinic and suggested writing or telegram ming Congress to approve additional grants for the "unnamed"