Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

"Because he's a psychopath, that's why."

Sara shook her head.

"There has to be more to it."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure exactly. I just have a feeling he wasn't acting on his own." "Could be," Michael said.

"So what do we do now?"

"Well have to work some damage control, come up with a counteroffensive, prove the slimeball was lying." "No matter what we do," Michael said, "some people are going to believe him."

"Yes, some people are going to believe him."

Michael shook his head.

"After all these years, after all this time, seeing his face again..."

On the other side of the country Jennifer Riker began to shake.

She could not believe what she was seeing on the television screen.

Like something out of a cheap horror movie, Marty Johnson had risen again. She had hoped to shut away the memory of his evil smirk forever, but now it was back, dragging painful images that would not go away into plain sight the bruises on little Michael's body, the black eyes, the concussions, the hospital stays, the absolute terror on the boy's face.

The sick bastard was back.

Jennifer let her anger fester, mount, become obsessive. She concentrated on it, encouraged it, and hoped that it would block out the more painful fact.

Michael has AIDS.

She shook her head. That poor kid. How many times had she said that about Michael? Thousands. Despite being born with looks, intelligence, and enough talent for ten people, bad luck had still tagged along after Michael like a faithful dog.

Jennifer glanced down at the coffee table. For the millionth time she read the name Susan on the envelope and wondered what to do. Last night she had considered trying to reach Susan but had decided it was foolish. Bruce was dead. Whatever he had written in the note would not change that fact. What was the rush? When Susan came back the note would still be here.

But now Jennifer was not so sure about her decision.

Something bothersome gnawed at the back of her brain. Brace's suicide, the mysterious package mailed to an unused California post office box, the murders, the SRI cure, the cryptic writing on the envelope:

And now Michael.

Her sadness at all this bad news had now transformed itself into something more, something deeper. Though she could not say specifically why, she felt frightened. No, more than that.

Petrified. She chastised herself for being paranoid, for seeing conspiracy in everything. But she could not shake the feeling.

Something was very wrong here, and it had something to do with Brace's medical files and that note to Susan.

Jennifer sat back, her head reeling in a rising spiral of uncertainty.

Harvey picked up his private line.

"Hello?"

"Please forgive me, you great big hunk. I want to be your love slave."

He closed his eyes and rubbed them.

"Cassandra, this really isn't the time."

Nervous pause.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I'll call back later."

"Please don't."

"I said I'm sorry. I can't take back "

"It's not that," he interrupted.

"I just don't have the time to get involved with someone right now."

"I blew it, huh?"

"No. It should have never happened in the first place." "But it felt so right. You said so yourself."

"Cassandra..."

"I was scared, Harv. And when I'm scared, I get stupid. I do dumb things. I... I have a tendency to destroy whatever I care about before it dies on me, you know?" "I understand," he said. He stopped, took a deep breath, and then continued.

"Why don't we just take it slow, okay? Go one step at a time."

"You mean it?" He half-smiled.

"Yeah."

"Why the change of heart?"

"I remembered something Sara once said about you."

"My sister?" "She said you had a heart as big as all outdoors despite what you think of yourself."

Pause.

"Sara said that?" she asked incredulously.

"About me?"

"Yes. I think she wishes you two were closer."

"I think I'm falling in love with you, Harvey."

He let a small chuckle pass his lips.

"Like we just agreed, let's take it slow."

"I'd like that."

"Good- bye, Cassandra."

"Good- bye, Harvey."

George picked up the telephone.

"Good afternoon," he said.

"Good afternoon."

! i

"I've been waiting for your call," George said.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"And I've been waiting for the rest of the money you owe me."

Pause.

"I know that, George. I'll have it for you soon. I promise."

"Plus ten grand."

"For what?"

"Late fee. An extra ten grand a week."

His employer let loose a long sigh.

"Okay. An extra ten thousand dollars." "Tine then," George said.

"Do you have another job for me?"

"Yes. But this one is going to be very different and more than a little tricky."

"Go on."

"Did you see Newsflash last night by any chance?" the voice asked.

"Of course."

"Then you'll appreciate how difficult this job is going to be."

"That's my problem," George said.

"You just worry about paying me."

"Understood."

"When do you want the job done?" George asked.

"Tonight."

"That doesn't give me much time."

"This situation has changed now," his employer said.

"It has to be tonight."

"Okay, but it'll cost you."

"101 pay it. I swear." George sighed.

"So who is tonight's lucky faggot?"

From the other end of the phone, George heard a throat being cleared.

"Michael Silverman."

Ll Dr. John Lowell looked across his desk at the plump man. He tried to mask the naked hatred from his face, but he knew that it was pointless. Reverend Sanders could see his expression of loathing; it did not seem to bother him.

"Thank you for seeing me," Sanders began.

"I appreciate you finding the time in your busy schedule."

"We only have an hour," Lowell replied impatiently.

"What do you want?"

Sanders stood and strolled about the spacious study.

"This is really a beautiful room, John," he began, his smile locked on autopilot.

"Every time I'm in here, I feel so... so at home. It's a wonderful study."

"Never mind that. My daughter will be home in a little while."

"So?"

"I don't want her to see you."

Sanders reached out and picked up the picture frame on John's desk.

"You have such lovely daughters, John. Gentle, beautiful Sara and the uh, sex " he stopped, looked up "the uh, sculpted Cassandra. You are a very fortunate man. You see, John, family is what it is all about. Our country was built on the principle of family values. Now that foundation is beginning to crack and crumble. It is our task, dear John, to repair the cracks and make the foundation as strong as ever."

"What do you want?"

"It's very simple. I want you to continue to help me in our crusade. I want you to stand up and do what is right."

"Will you please stop with the mumbo-jumbo and get to the point?"

Sanders' voice remained unruffled, placid.

"Tell me, John, why did you refuse to come to last night's emergency meeting?"

"Are you out of your mind?"

"No, John, I don't think so."

"You don't want this disease cured, do you?"

Sanders gave an amused smile.

"Tell me, John, would you have wanted to cure the plagues of Egypt?

Would you have tried to help Job, even though God did not want you to?

Would you have told Abraham that God did not really want him to sacrifice Isaac?"

"What the hell are you "

"Would you try to stop God's work, John? Would you try to join Lucifer in obstructing the Lord's plans?"

"Get the hell off your high horse "

"We know that AIDS can be transmitted through bodily fluids," Sanders interrupted, "yet if you dare suggest mandatory testing of your doctor or your dentist, the liberals go crazy. They scream about constitutional rights. Well, John, what about our constitutional rights? What about our rights to remain healthy?