Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

Michael. Her poor, beautiful Michael. Dead. How? Why?

The room was tiny. The walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in around her. Sara curled herself into a tighter ball, lowered her head, and sobbed gently. She had never known such loneliness, such despair.

The cold grew unbearable. Her fingers became numb. She felt herself grow weaker and weaker. She tried to concentrate on a Blue Oyster Cult song in a bizarre attempt to keep herself awake:

"All our times have come, Here but now they're gone Seasons don't fear the Reaper, Nor do the wind, nor the sun, nor the rain, We can be like they are..."

But she felt herself slipping away.

Hold on, Sara. Hold on.

But it was no good. Harvey was coming back soon and then it would be over. Her Michael was dead. He had joined the Reaper and in the end, so would she.

Her eyes began to close.

Michael was still unconscious when they wheeled him into his room on the third floor. Dr. Sombat patiently filled Harvey in on everything that had happened.

"Your Lieutenant Bernstein is a brave man," the Thai doctor said.

"He saved Mr. Silverman's life."

"Did they capture the man who kidnapped Michael?" Harvey asked.

"Yes. He is in custody." "Has... has he said anything yet? Anything that might help solve this case?"

"I apologize, Dr. Riker, but I am not privy to that information."

Harvey nodded.

"Where is Lieutenant Bernstein now?"

"He had an emergency," Dr. Sombat replied.

"He drove off with Sergeant Monticelli. If there is nothing else, I have to get back to the airport."

"No, nothing else. Thank you for all your help."

"You are welcome. How can I get back to Kennedy Airport?"

"Ask the receptionist downstairs to call a taxi. Thanks again."

They shook hands and Dr. Sombat departed, leaving Harvey alone with Michael in the quiet, dark room.

"Michael?"

No response. Harvey could see that Michael's nose was broken. He had lost a considerable amount of weight.

"I'm sorry, Michael."

Harvey stared down at his young friend lying helplessly in the bed. A tear ran down his cheek. He bent over and gently kissed Michael's forehead. Then he turned to leave.

"Harv?"

He turned around. Michael looked up through the darkness with groggy eyes.

"I'm right here, Michael. You're back now."

His voice was barely a whisper.

"Sara?"

"She left a few minutes before you got here," he replied.

"I left a message on the answering machine for her to call me."

'"Peel... feel weak."

"I know. Try to get some rest. I'll wake you when Sara gets here."

Michael tried to nod.

"Max got the Slasher."

"I know," Harvey replied, walking back toward the bed. He hugged his friend.

"Go to sleep now, Michael. Everything is going to be okay. You want me to give you something?"

Michael shook his head and closed his eyes. Harvey quietly crept out of the room. Then he headed down the hallway, unlocked the door, and entered the laboratory.

"I'm sorry, Michael," he said out loud. But there was no one to hear his words.

He took out the gun from his pocket and wrapped a towel around the barrel, using it as a makeshift silencer. No matter really. The refrigeration room was soundproof once the door was closed. He had shot Eric in there and no one had heard a sound.

He crossed the lab. How was he going to get the bodies out?

Harvey knew from first-hand experience how heavy dead weight could be.

He would have to place the corpses in a plastic bag.

Then he would instruct the nurses that he would take care of Michael for this ever ting on his own and that no one was to enter the third floor under any condition. That would give him the opportunity to drag the bodies to the elevator, head down to the basement, get them out through the tunnel George had used, and put them in the trunk of his car.

Then what?

He was not sure. Tie weights to their legs and dump them in the river.

Isn't that what they always did in the movies? He would have to be careful. Wear gloves. Clean the lab from top to bottom. Wouldn't want the police to find a few strands of long blonde hair in the refrigeration room now, would we?

He reached the door of the refrigeration room and leaned his ear against it. Cold. Well, what did he expect? And why did he put his ear against the door in the first place? What had he expected to hear through the thick door?

Idiot.

Stop putting it off, Harv. Stop stalling. Sara has to die. She'll never keep silent. Think of all the young men dying every day.

Think of the thousands, maybe millions, you can save from an awful death. Look toward your goal.

A world with no AIDS.

Harvey nodded to himself. He reached down and unlocked the padlock.

Then he opened the door and pointed the gun at Sara.

Two floors below Cassandra smiled at the security guard as she headed into the clinic. She tried to put a little bounce in her steps, tried to make her smile bigger, but it would not hold. In her right hand, she had a bag of take-out Chinese. Spare ribs, moo-shu pork, General Tsao's Chicken (Chinese generals cook?), and beef with broccoli, all packaged in those little white boxes Chinese restaurants use. The bottom of the bag no doubt had about 850 packets of duck sauce, soy sauce, and that mustard hot enough to remove paint. Then there were the usual fortune cookies and, for some reason which always escaped her, they always gave you an orange for dessert.

Cassandra strolled down the hall toward Harvey's office. She had not seen him very much in the past few days and missed him terribly.

Probably he had not been sleeping or eating properly.

Between Michael's mysterious kidnapping, the Gay Slasher, and now her father's Washington conspiracy it was enough to make any man begin to unravel.

So Cassandra had decided another little surprise was in order.

At the end of the hallway, she knocked on Harvey's door.

"Hello?"

No response.

"Harv?"

Still no response.

She peeked in the doorway and saw that the room was empty.

Maybe the receptionist would know where he went. She went back down the hall to the receptionist's desk. Cassandra smiled, and the receptionist smiled back, putting up one finger to signal her to wait.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said into the phone, "but I can't locate Sara Lowell. She may have already left, Mrs. Riker, I know you said it's an emergency, but... yes, I understand the importance. Would you like me to page Dr. Riker? No? Okay, okay, I won't, calm down."

Cassandra leaned over.

"A call for Sara?"

The receptionist put her hand over the mouthpiece.

"It's Jennifer Riker, Dr. Riker's ex. She keeps ranting about an emergency."

"I'll talk to her."

Cassandra took the phone.

"Hello?"

Jennifer's voice came fast.

"Who is this?"

"Cassandra Lowell, Jennifer. I'm Sara's sister. We met a few years back at a party " "I remember," Jennifer.

"Where's Sara?"

"I don't know. I just got here myself."

"Find her, Cassandra. She's in grave danger."

Cassandra held the phone close to her ear.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the letter," Jennifer explained.

"What letter?"

"The letter Bruce wrote."

Sergeant Willie Monticelli veered right and exited off the Henry Hudson Parkway at 178th Street. He sped down Fort Washington Avenue, passed Hood Park, and turned left at 167th Street. He made a hard right on Broadway, accelerated past the main hospital building and Babies Hospital, and took a sharp left.

Ten seconds later the squad car arrived at the Sidney Pavilion entrance. Willie pulled the car up on the sidewalk, braking with a horrid screech, inches before hitting the cement stairs at the entrance. Max was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, Willie not far behind. The two sprinted up the stairs, badges out. The security guards, spotting the police IDs, stepped back to avoid being the victims of a two-man stampede.