Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

Very pissed off, in fact. But George could not worry about that now.

He had far bigger worries. He had to get to Michael Silverman before the damn doctor returned.

He pressed his back against the nook in the lab doorway and waited.

From the sound of her footsteps the old lady could not have been more than ten steps away. He reached into his pocket and slid out his stiletto. She was only a yard away now.

His muscles tensed in preparation.

Two floors below Sara hobbled next to Reece Porter.

"Reece?"

"Yes."

"How did he look to you?"

Reece Porter shrugged. Immediately after hearing Michael's statement, Reece had left the Knick locker room, taken a taxi to the Seattle airport, waited eight hours for the next available plane to New

"York, flew across the entire country, spent the day trying to find out where Michael was, located Sara at Dr. Simpson's office, and then obtained permission from Harvey to visit Michael.

A damn long twenty-four hours.

"Mikey looked okay," he said at last.

"Just tired mostly."

"From the SRI, I think," Sara added.

"I'm glad you came, Reece. It means a lot to him."

Reece shrugged.

"So how are you feeling?"

'"I'm fine."

"Uh huh. Sure you are."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Your walk, for one thing. It looks like somebody did a deep freeze on your leg."

It was true. Her leg had been cramping up all day, the soreness clenching down on the very bone with sharp teeth.

Every step was a new adventure in pain.

"I'll be all right. It's just a little stiff."

"Then wait here," Reece said.

"I'll get the car."

"I can walk."

He shook his head.

"I swear, Sara, you can be as big a pain in the butt as Mikey. Just wait here and stop being so goddamn stubborn. Sit over there."

With a weak smile she did as he asked.

"I parked in the visitor's lot on 167th Street," Reece continued, heading for the exit.

"Give me ten minutes."

"I'll be here."

She glanced about her surroundings. There were two armed security guards at the door plus two plainclothes policeman in cars outside the clinic's door. Her leg throbbed as though her heart had dropped down into the area above her ankle. She would soak it when she got home.

Yes, she would take a long, hot bath, find a good book, smother herself with blankets and pillows and... And what?

Lay there and worry, she guessed. When she had first been told about Michael's condition, the news did not really reach her.

It was as though her mind had built a barrier more like a sieve actually which only let in the facts but kept out the emotions and ramifications. Unfortunately, the holes in the sieve were beginning to widen. They were opening up enough to allow reality to seep into her conscious thoughts.

Sara had done a few stories on the AIDS epidemic. She had seen what it could do to a person, how the virus could eat you alive from the inside. Her mind began to swirl with the devastating images, and like the horror AIDS inflicted, the images lunged at her in no particular order.

Wasted bodies now little more than a defenseless battle zone for disease: Kaposi's sarcoma; pneumocystis carinii; lymphoblastic lymphoma; fierce fevers over 105 degrees; respiratory infections; whole body systems collapsing; mental deterioration; delirium to the point of babbling like an Alzheimer's patient; every breath an intolerable struggle; lungs filling with fluid until a tube was shoved through the rib cage in order to drain them; getting weaker before your eyes, so weak that even eating becomes impossible; in and out of comas; a handsome young face changing overnight into a haggard skull-mask; healthy physiques disintegrating into little more than brittle bones with skin hanging off;

painful and unsightly purple lesions everywhere; sores inside the mouth so thick that swallowing produces only choking sounds; no control over bowel movements; constant, inescapable agony; eyes that can actually see Death standing around the corner, waiting patiently to step forward and claim its conquest... And the fear of the disease, the confusion, the discrimination.

Even now, 25 percent of the American people were so ignorant about AIDS that they actually believed it could be transmitted from just donating blood.

No, there was nothing pretty about AIDS, nothing romantic, nothing gothic, nothing cinematic. There was just pain, horror, and death.

With AIDS, your body and mind fought a constant battle against agonizing illness after agonizing illness. You suffered through one devastating bout after another, no time to recover, like a weakened club fighter who is forced to go yet another round with the champ. But against AIDS there was no chance for the one-punch comeback.

Eventually, you lost.

She replayed what Harvey had told Michael and her no more than an hour ago about his visit from Raymond Markey. And yet, when she considered the cruel severity of the AIDS virus, her mind could not comprehend his words. Could someone really be trying to prevent a cure? Could someone really be trying to turn back the clock, delaying a cure for tens or even hundreds of thousands of fellow human beings? The weight of the cruelty boggled the mind.

Could someone be so desperate to keep the AIDS virus alive that they would murder? It made no sense. And all of this just made her want to talk to Michael more, want to, at the very least, look in on him one more time before heading home.

"Hi, Sara."

She looked up. Eric was standing in front of her. Despite the r fact that he had been working for fifty of the last sixty hours, he looked fresh and neat. He smiled at her warmly.

"Are you okay?";

She nodded.

"On your way home?" Eric asked. I "Yes. I'm just waiting for Reece."

"I'm on my way out too. I haven't slept in...1 can't even remember the last time I slept. I just have to run up to the lab and slide this under the door first."

"Is it anything important?"

"Not really. It's just a memo for Winston O'Connor. Harvey wants us all to meet tomorrow morning."

"I, uh, I can bring it up for you."

Eric looked at her, puzzled.

"But I thought you just said you were on your way out."

"I am. I mean, I will be." She pushed down hard against the top of her cane in order to stand.

"It's just..."

"Just what?"

She half- shrugged.

"I want to see Michael again."

"He's probably sleeping, Sara."

"I know. I don't want to wake him. I just...1 don't know. I just want to peek my head in and make sure everything is okay." Eric smiled tightly.

"I understand, really I do, but I don't think-" "Please," she said.

"It's important to me."

Eric hesitated. Then: "Okay, here's the memo. If he's still awake, say good night for me too."

"I will. Thanks, Eric." She took the paper from his hand, kissed his cheek, and pushed the call button. A few moments later she was ascending in the elevator toward the third floor.

Janice Matley saw George's sneakers first.

The toes were jutting out from the doorway of the lab. They were black sneakers, or at least the toe part was black. With the kids and their crazy sneakers nowadays, who knew what color the rest of the sneaker was? Her grandson had a pair of Nike Air Jordans that had more colors than a rainbow.

She swallowed.

"Who's there?" she called out.

Her voice, she was surprised to hear, sounded steady, confident.

"I said, who's there?"

She saw the foot slide forward. The sneaker was completely black after all. Reeboks, as a matter of fact. A man, a big man, followed the sneakers. He was dressed entirely in black. Black sneakers, black socks, black sweater, black pants. His shirt sleeves were pushed up, revealing powerful forearms the size of Popeye's.