Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

"I take care of your big cock. You see."

"Bet your ass you will." The man stumbled, bumping into walls like a pinball.

"You like that, Frankie?"

"Yeah, that's wonderful."

"You want to go in room now, Frankie?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

"Okay, but money before is for boss man. You give Tawnee big tip, yes?"

"Let's talk about it in the room."

Michael froze. He saw the doorknob turn.

"No, Frankie, this way," the whore said.

The door shook.p"

"Damn door is stuck."

"Over here, Frankie. That sign say no enter."

"Fuck the sign, sweetheart.

"I'll get us in. You just keep rubbing my balls."

"No, Frankie, wrong room." Her warnings were more urgent now, but Frankie did not pay heed.

"That's boss man's room, Frankie. He get mad. Come over here.

Frankie!"

Frankie threw his shoulder against the wood. The lock grudgingly gave way. Michael's eyes widened as the door began to swing open.

"No, Frankie, wrong room." The whore quickly reached through the portal. She maneuvered Frankie out of the way, fixed the lock, took hold of the door, and began to swing it closed.

For the briefest of moments she looked at Michael, her eyes stained with fear and sympathy. Then she turned away. Michael's heart sank as the door closed.

"Come on, Frankie," the whore tried to enthuse.

"We go have fun. You like too much."

"I hope so, sweetheart. Let's party!"

Then Michael heard another door open and close.

Frankie's penis remained flaccid.

"What's the matter, Frankie?" Tawnee asked.

"You no like me?"

Frankie looked down. The whore was licking his balls and doing a yeoman's job of it too. Still, no hard-on. Super strange.

Frankie's sexual dysfunctions usually came from the flip-side of a softy: premature eruption of of' Mount Vesuvius. Not being able to achieve a serviceable, gargantuan erection was something new to him.

Super strange.

It wasn't the alcohol either, though he had drunk enough to knock out a battalion. Shit, Frankie had been blitzed plenty of times. Plenty.

But his

"Throbbing Warhead" had never had any trouble engaging in the past. The Big Fella was usually swollen to the size of a Louisville Slugger by now, splitting the little lady in two nice, even pieces. And it wasn't the chicks fault either.

She was a pro in every way, her tongue licking gently at him like a kitten near a saucer of milk. A beautiful thing really. Screw the cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel getting sucked off by a working pro was one of his favorite things.

But suddenly the dog had bitten, the bee had stung, he was feeling sad.

Check that. He was feeling un horny And why?

Because he was a basketball fan.

"Lie down, Frankie. Relax."

He obeyed, but his mind was elsewhere. He had read in the International Herald Tribune a couple of days ago about the kidnapping of Michael Silverman. Super strange stuff. It had happened in some AIDS clinic on the east coast of the USA.

So then why the hell was Silverman chained to the floor of a Thai whorehouse?

Simple, Frankie. You're drunk. Check that: you're shit-faced, you thick-dicked macho hunk. You imagined the whole thing. How long was the door open, Super Stud, two seconds? You barely saw the guy.

Good point, except for one thing. Frankie never hallucinated.

Drinking loosened him up. Drinking made him feel good.

Drinking made him pass out and pee in his pants. Drinking did not, however, cause him to imagine kidnap victims chained to a floor. He had to tell the police, and he had to tell them right away. Could be a reward in it for him.

"Whoa, honey, slow down a second," he said.

The whore lifted her head.

"Something to please you, Frankie?"

He stood and grabbed his pants. He zipped slowly, making sure he kept his Trouser Snake from running wild and getting caught in the metal teeth.

"Don't take it personal, sweetheart, but I gotta go. Maybe next time."

"But, Frankie-"

"Here's fifty bucks. I'll tell boss man you were great.

Don't worry."

He winked and then headed out the door.

Tawnee shrugged and picked up the fifty dollar bill. Poor man, she thought. It was sort of sad. She had seen more than her share of penises in her day, but the thing in that guy's pants looked like a baby's pinkie.

So sad.

Sara arrived at the family estate a few minutes before eight.

Cassandra met her at the front door.

"Hi," Sara said.

"Hi."

That was the extent of their conversation.

They sat on either side of the den and waited in silence. Their eyes never met. They seemed to be avoiding each other, like teenagers left alone on a first date, but above all they looked weary.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, the only noise in the still surroundings. Sara began to tap her leg and sing an old classic from Thin Lizzy, but the words died away quickly.

"Sara?"

"Yes."

"I hope Michael is okay."

Sara nodded, a thin smile on her lips.

"He is."

They heard the familiar sound of the Mercedes diesel engine.

Their father was home. With great effort Sara made her way to her feet. Cassandra did likewise. As they headed down the corridor, past portraits of ancestors and the fine wooden paneling, John Lowell entered.

John saw his two daughters immediately and stopped. He did not call out to them or try to back away. He just stood there for a moment, staring, a defeated look on his face.

Cassandra stepped forward.

"I told Sara. I'm sorry " John interrupted his daughter with a raised hand.

"You did the right thing," he said.

"what's going on, Dad?" Sara asked.

"Perhaps we can explain."

"We?" Cassandra repeated.

John lowered his head and stepped aside. From behind him Senator Stephen Jenkins entered the room. His appearance had changed radically since the Cancer Center gala two weeks ago.

Bradley's father looked drawn. His eyes were unfocused and bewildered.

The senator tried to smile.

"Hello, ladies."

The sisters shared a confused glance.

"Dad," Sara began, "I don't understand what's going on."

"I know you don't, honey," John said gently.

"Maybe we can explain it to you in the study."

Harvey's eyes were red. He had not been home in five days, and he had not seen Cassandra since their brief tryst in his office the day Michael had been kidnapped. His sleep came in infrequent periods of semiconsciousness at his desk, more like airplane dozing than genuine REM sleep. For several minutes at a time he had managed to push Michael from his mind and focus on work. But the minutes never lasted very long before his attention reverted back to Michael. Still, he felt keyed up by new developments. The changes in the SRI formula enhancements, really were going to achieve the desired effect, he was sure of it. He just had to buckle down a little more, push himself a little more.

As anyone who knew or worked with him could attest, motivation had never been a problem for Harvey. More than anyone, he understood the ramifications of his work. That knowledge spurred him on when others almost all others would quit.

The intercom buzzed.

"Dr. Riker?"

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Riker called again. She wanted me to remind you to call her as soon as possible. She said it was urgent." Harvey sighed. Urgent. Yeah, right. To be fair, Jennifer probably wanted to know how Sara was doing and if they had learned anything knew about Michael. He really didn't have the time to go into all that with her. Besides, thinking about her still distracted him, and the last thing he needed was a distraction.

"Okay, thanks, I'll get back to her."

"Would you like me to place the call for you?"

Harvey thought for a moment and decided he might as well get it over with before Jen became hostile.