Miracle Cure (23 page)

I realize that this will hinder your own programs at the Cancer Center, but I hope you will support us in this new and exciting endeavor.

Sincerely, Leonard Bronkowitz, M.D.

And there was a letter from Washington dealing with the same subject:

Dear Dr. Lowell, The medical disbursements for this fiscal year have been allocated and I regret to say that there will be no funds for the new wing at the Cancer Center. We realize and respect the importance of your work, but the fact remains that New York City and, more specifically, Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center have already received more than a lion's share of funds, most of which have gone to the center's new AIDS clinic, operated by Dr. Harvey Riker and Dr. Bruce Grey.

Personally, I believe your work is crucial and am disappointed in this decision, but since you are a former surgeon general, I am sure you can appreciate how these things sometimes work. The AIDS virus seems to me to be the public's

"Disease of the Week" or

"Flavor of the Month." It's the new "in" cause for everyone to rally around. I am confident that the public's interest will wane and tire soon and then they will have the ability to view this disease more rationally.

Take heart and know that there are others who feel as we do. I would be honored if during your next visit to Washington you would call me so that we can discuss the world of medicine. I very much value your opinion on a broad range of subjects.

Yours, Raymond Markey, M.D.

Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services

Cassandra felt ill. There was really nothing shocking in the letters.

She knew her father had been against the clinic from its inception, that he had complained bitterly about the "waste" of funds. What she had not known was the direct effect the Sidney Pavilion had had on his own cancer research. It was an either/or situation either the AIDS clinic or the new wing at the Cancer Center. Cassandra knew how much the Center meant to her father, but how far would he go to get funding?

Surely, he would never... The sound of a car pulling up the driveway made her jump.

A loud diesel engine. Her father's Mercedes. He was back already.

Shit! I thought he was going to be out all day!

Cassandra put the two letters back into the folder, put the folder back into the bottom drawer, and closed the drawer. In the background she heard the purr of the electric garage door opener.

What did I do with that damn key?

Her eyes scanned the desktop for the key. Nothing. She looked on the floor. Still nothing. The Mercedes was pulling into the six-car garage now. She had to get out of the office before he saw her. Damn it, where was that key? When she saw it a second later in the desk's keyhole, she wanted to slap herself for not looking there earlier. She wrenched it out as she heard her father turn off the engine and slam the car door shut.

She ripped a piece of scotch tape out of the dispenser on the desk and taped the key back under the middle drawer. She moved quickly now, getting up from behind the desk, slipping quickly to the door, opening it, turning right, and heading down the hall.

If she had turned left instead, she would have seen her father standing at the end of the hallway, watching her with a stunned look on his face.

Donald Parker stood with stiff back, perfect posture, and a dark blue suit at the end of the hall. Forty years in the news business had taken him across all seven continents. Parker had covered the inauguration of every president from Harry Truman to George Bush. He had witnessed the first moon launch, the Tet Offensive, the Beijing massacre, the opening of the Berlin Wall, Operation Desert Storm. He had interviewed Gandhi, Malcolm X, Pol Pot, Khomemi, Amin, Gorbachev, Hussein. There was little he had not accomplished.

As Sara limped toward him, Donald Parker caught her eye and smiled gently. His eyes were bright blue, piercing and probing. The eyes of the perfect interviewer.

"Hello, Sara."

"Hello, Donald. Did you get my notes?"

He nodded.

"This is quite a story, Sara. The story of the year maybe. Why are you giving it up?" "I'm too close to it," she said.

"Personal involvement?"

She nodded.

"Does this have something to do with the statement your husband is making before the show?"

"I'd rather not say just yet." "Fair enough," he said.

"Any new developments?"

"Another patient, a Riccardo Martino, was murdered last night on the hospital grounds."

"What?"

"I have all the details here."

He took the piece of paper and read it.

"Good work, Sara."

"There's one other thing."

"Oh?"

"You can't mention Senator Jenkins' son on the air."

"I don't understand." She explained. He listened intently, nodding.

"Okay," he said when she finished, "I'll leave that part out."

"Thanks, Donald. I really appreciate it."

"And let me get something else straight. This Dr. Riker does not want to be on television?"

"Right. Dr. Riker wants to keep his anonymity. His assistant Dr. Eric Blake will handle the interviews."

"Okay then, I better get this thing wrapped up. Thanks for laying all the groundwork, Sara. You've left me with the easy parts."

"No problem," she said, walking away.

"And thanks for understanding about Bradley Jenkins."

Donald Parker watched her hobble away, leaning heavily on her cane.

Sara was a mesmerizing girl, an awesome beauty masking an awesome intellect. She was good at her job and Donald found his respect for her growing every day.

Unfortunately, he knew, her respect for him was about to be tested.

After tonight's show she would be more than disappointed with him. She would be furious. But Donald Parker had been in this business a long time, and he had developed a certain code of ethics over the years. He did not believe in ignoring important aspects of a story for the convenience of others no matter what the possible consequences.

And he was not going to leave Bradley Jenkins out of his report.

Cassandra was about to say something she would later regret.

She had come to Harvey's office to tell him about the letters she found in her father's drawer. Instead, unplanned words poured out of her mouth.

"I have something to tell you," Cassandra began.

"Oh?"

She kept her head low, her eyes afraid to meet his.

"I spent last night with another man."

A brief flash of grief rushed through him, widening his eyes.

"The, uh, marketing director?"

She nodded.

"I see," Harvey said, his face calm now, showing nothing.

He circled back to his desk, sat down, and began to jot notes in a file.

"Is that all you're going to say?" she asked.

"What do you want me to say?"

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Do you want it to bother me?"

"Stop answering my questions with a question."

"I don't know what you want from me, Cassandra. You come in here and tell me you slept with another man. How do you want me to react?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you tell me?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"I would never have found out," he said.

"Why did you say anything?"

She opened her mouth, stopped, began to shrug, stopped, then said in a hesitant voice, "I wanted to be up front with you."

"Fine. You were up front. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do."

"Wait a second-"

"I'm sorry, Cassandra. I really am. I thought we were happy together. I thought I don't know I thought we had something special."

"We do."

"Then we have different ideas about special. I can't afford to get my heart squashed again. It hurts too much. It affects my concentration, my work "

"It won't happen again. I swear. I never meant to hurt "

"It doesn't matter. I should have never let it come this far anyway.

It was a mistake from the beginning. I was a goddamn fool to think you could ever..." He shook his head.

"Goodbye, Cassandra." He lowered his eyes and began writing.

"Harv?"

He did not look up. His voice was more firm now.

"Goodbye, Cassandra."

She felt something odd, something hard and painful, form inside her own chest. She wanted to say something more, but his cold expression stopped her.

She turned and left.

"Michael's giving a press conference in five minutes."

Reece Porter stopped lacing his hi-top Nikes and looked up at his coach.

"What are you talking about?"

Coach Richie Crenshaw crossed the locker room, stepping over strewn sneakers, jockstraps, and long legs. The Knicks were in Seattle's Kingdome, preparing to play a preseason scrimmage against the Supersonics. thrust what I said. Michael is making a statement at the start of Newsflash."

"What kind of statement?" Reece asked.

"Hell if I know."

Jerome Holloway exchanged a confused glance with Reece.

"And it's being covered on national television?"

"That's right," Coach Crenshaw replied.

"I don't get it," Reece said.

"What the hell could Mikey have to say that a prime time news show would want to cover live?"

"Something about his hepatitis, I guess."

Reece shook his head.

Sports Channel or ESPN might be interested in covering something like that but not CBS."

"Besides," Jerome added, "the press already knows about his hepatitis."

Coach Crenshaw shrugged.

"Beats the hell out of me. Turn on the TV, Jerome, and we'll find out."

The rookie walked over to the set and flicked the switch.

Michael's teammates and coaches stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the screen. Most of their faces displayed a sense of relaxed curiosity. But not Recce's. Something didn't make sense to him. An athlete, no matter how popular, does not make a live statement on a news show unless it is big news. Really big news. Something that transcended sports.

As Reece Porter watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium, an awful feeling of dread flooded his chest.

George was in the middle of doing his third set of one hundred push-ups, his muscles bunching and swelling with each repetition, when he heard the advertising teaser:

"Stay tuned for a very special episode of Newsflash. What's the connection between a surprise statement from basketball great Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, and the story of the year about the AIDS epidemic? Watch Newsflash and see. Next on CBS."

George froze. Michael Silverman, husband of Sara Lbwell, son-in-law of John Lowell. Silverman had been at the charity ball on the night that George killed Bradley Jenkins. Now he was going to make a surprise statement on live television.

George wanted to hear what he had to say. He wanted to hear very much.

Of course an announcement by someone like Michael Silverman was hardly reason for concern, but what else had the TV blurb said? Something about a connection to the Gay Slasher.

Well, that should be interesting. And then there was the last thing that voice on the TV had said the story of the year on the AIDS epidemic. George shook his head. It was too much of a coincidence.

Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, the AIDS epidemic.

Someone had tied a few loose ends together.

The real question for George concerned Michael Silverman's announcement. The police already knew about the connection between the murder victims and the AIDS clinic, so it had only been a matter of time before it leaked to the press. But what did it have to do with Sara Lowell's husband? Was Michael Silverman connected with the murders? And if so, how?

Careful, George. Your job is to eliminate them, not figure out why.

True, but a man had to watch his back. George was being forced to take greater risks than normal. The Gay Slasher had become high-profile stuff. Now that the scrutiny was intensifying, logic dictated that he should learn more about the "why" of these killings in order to protect himself.

Damn it, why hadn't he checked this whole thing out beforehand?

Sloppy work, George. Very unprofessional.

George sprang up off the floor as the commercial ended. He' sat on the edge of the large bed and watched as Michael and

Sara walked toward the podium. Sara Lowell was very beautiful.

Incredible looking. Turning his gaze to Michael, George felt a sharp pang of envy.

That lucky son of a bitch slept with Sara Lowell every night.

George shook his head. Sometimes life was just not fair.

"I'm home," Max Bernstein called out.

"I'm in the bedroom," Lenny replied.

"Did you pick up some milk?"

"Yep. And a six-pack of Diet Coke."

Lenny walked into the den and kissed Max lightly on the lips.

"Tired?"

"Exhausted. How about you?"

Lenny nodded, taking the bundle from Max's arm.

"I spent seven hours in court for a case that was never called."

"What happened?"

"My client didn't show."

"Skipped his bail?"

"Seems so."

Bernstein shrugged.

"We cops catch them. You lawyers let them go."

"Yeah, but without us you'd be out of a job. By the way, I ordered a pizza. I figured you wouldn't want to go out."

"You figured right."

Lenny carried the bag to the kitchen.

"Are you going to be working this weekend?"

"Huh?"

"Stop biting your nails for two seconds and listen. Are you going to be working this weekend?"

"Probably, why?"

"It's my weekend with Melissa."

Melissa was Lenny's twelve-year-old daughter.

"I'll try to be around."

"I'd appreciate it. Oh, I rented that movie you wanted to see."

Max picked up the phone and dialed.

"Can't watch it tonight.

Newsflash is on in a few minutes."

"I almost forgot." Lenny came out of the kitchen.

"Max?"

"What?"

"Get your fingers out of your mouth before I shove them down your throat."

"Sorry."

"And who are you calling?"

"My apartment."

"Such a waste."

"Lenny, don't start."

"Why have you kept that empty apartment for six years? All you have in there is a telephone and an answering machine."

"You know why."

"Oh, that's right. You're afraid someone is going to find out you live with gasp-oh-gasp! a man. That you're an honest to-God, screaming faggot."

"Lenny.

"So you keep your swinging bachelor pad on 87th Street for show no, because you're paranoid. Wouldn't it be cheaper just to tell everyone that we're two single, homo studs who happen to live together?

Something like in Three Men And A Baby."

"What are you babbling about?"

"Three Men And A Baby. You remember the movie. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson, and Steve Guttenberg were all single and sharing an apartment and nobody worried about their sexual preferences. And what about Oscar and Felix on The Odd Couple?

Murray the cop never thought they were getting it on."

No messages on the machine. Max hung up the phone.

"You're a nag."

"And trim your mustache already. You look like Gene Shalit."

"Nag, nag. Did you feed Simon yet?"

"A few minutes ago. He ate eight goldfish the other day and he's downing another half dozen now. Want to watch?"

"I think I'll pass."

Lenny shrugged.

"He's your snake."

Max had bought Simon, a harmless garden snake, on a whim two years ago.

He thought it would be kind of cool to own a pet snake. Max, however, had overlooked one small problem he was scared to death of snakes. He loved Simon, liked to watch him slide about his cage and slither up to the screen on the top.

But he was afraid to touch him or go near him, for that matter.

And worse, the only thing Simon ate were live goldfish, which he caught in his laser-quick mouth and swallowed whole. You could actually see the outline of the struggling fish as it slid down Simon's thin body.

Gross.

Luckily, Lenny had taken a liking to Simon a rather sick liking, as a matter of fact. Lenny enjoyed inviting friends over to watch the feeding; they bet on which fish would be the last one eaten.

Very gross.

The doorbell rang. Lenny opened the door, paid the delivery boy, and brought the pizza into the den. Max watched him, remembering how his life had changed when he first saw Lenny's gentle eyes seven years ago.

1984, a year of transition.

The nights of anonymous sex, orgies in Soho, leather bars, and Caligula-like bathhouses were beginning to melt away under the blistering heat of the AIDS epidemic. Though he had lived in constant fear of being found out, Max had participated in it all.

How many lovers had he had? He had lost count. How many friends had he lost to the AIDS virus? That number too he had lost count. So many taken away, and now the dead were little more than a blurry blend of faces, vivacious young men whose lives had been suddenly, painfully, snuffed out. They were gone now and too often forgotten.

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.