Miracle Cure (6 page)

"So how do I look this evening, Michael?"

"Nice."

"Nice?" she repeated.

Michael shrugged.

"Kind of noncommittal," Cassandra noted.

He shrugged again.

Cassandra turned her attention to Harvey for the briefest of moments.

"Dr. Riker, do you agree with Michael's assessment?"

Harvey cleared his throat.

"Uh, a lot of words come to mind, Cassandra. Nice is not one of them." She smiled briefly, her gaze back upon Michael.

"Michael, can we talk for a moment?"

"Look, Cassandra "

"It's okay," Harvey interrupted.

"I need to freshen my drink anyway."

They both watched him walk away. In front of the ballroom the band Dr. Lowell had hired finished their rendition of Tie A Yellow Ribbon and moved on to Feelings. The lead singer sounded like a cat caught in a cuisinart.

"Care to dance?" Cassandra asked.

"No, thanks."

"Why not?".

"I'm not in the mood. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Stop being rude, Michael. I'll get to it in a minute. Pretend this is foreplay. You've heard of foreplay, haven't you?"

"I think I read something about it in Cosmo."

"Good. How do you like my dress?"

"Divine. What do you want?"

"Michael- "

"You're not really going to start this shit again, are you?"

"What shit?"

"You know what shit, Cassandra."

"I do?"

"I'm married to Sara, for chrissake. You remember Sara blonde, petite, gorgeous, lousy taste in music, your sister."

"So?"

Michael rolled his eyes.

"So why do you keep bothering me?

Why do you always come on like some soap opera harlot?"

She looked at him.

"You don't approve of me, do you, Michael?"

"It's not my place to approve or disapprove."

"So what do you think of me then?" she asked, sipping her drink.

"Really."

"I think you're great," he said.

"You're beautiful and funny and smart, but when you act like this" he shrugged "you kind of make me sick."

"You're so sweet." Her hand reached out and rested on Michael's chest.

Then she winked at him, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked.

She winked and pointed behind him.

"That."

Michael turned around. From the entrance way Sara stood watching them.

A few hours ago George had successfully stolen a car and changed its license plate. He circled the area near the Lowell estate for a little while, making sure he knew every possible escape route before parking in an abandoned lot several miles away. He spread goose-liver pate on a piece of toast and poured himself a red wine. Very young.

Beaujolais-Villages.

A perfect picnic.

When George had finished, he tidied the car, checked his watch, and drove back toward Dr. Lowell's mansion. He reached into the pocket of his Banana Republic khakis and took out his stiletto. He pressed the spring-release button with his thumb.

The long, thin blade shot out with a sleek pop.

Very nice.

He closed the blade and put it back in his pocket. Enough games.

Enough wine and song.

It was time to go to work.

Harvey Riker helped himself to another martini.

His third. Or was it his fourth? He was not sure.

Harvey was not a heavy drinker, but lately he had found himself eyeing the bottle with new respect and desire. So much had happened the past few weeks. Why now? Why when they were on the brink of cornering and even destroying the AIDS virus did all this have to happen?

He handed the glass back to the bartender.

"Another," he said simply.

The bartender hesitated but then took the glass.

"Last one, okay?"

Harvey nodded. The bartender was right. Enough was enough.

He spun back toward the crowd. Michael was still talking with Cassandra. Man, she was something else. Talk about sizzle. A guy could get sunburn just standing near her. Make that sunstroke.

And how old is she, Harvey? Young enough to be your daughter, I suspect.

He shrugged. No harm in fantasizing, was there?

But his mind quickly returned to the other matter. The matter.

His bloodshot eyes scanned the room, but there was still no sign of Sara.

"Hello, Dr. Riker."

Harvey turned toward the familiar voice.

"Hey, Bradley, how you feeling?"

Bradley Jenkins, the senator's son, smiled at Harvey.

"Much better, thanks."

"Any problems?"

Bradley shook his head.

"Right now I feel great. It's like some sort of a miracle...1 just don't know how long it will last."

Harvey looked at the soft-spoken young man. Sara had introduced Harvey to Bradley years ago, well before Bradley had become his patient or even suspected he had AIDS.

"Neither do we, Bradley," he said in a serious tone.

"The important thing is to continue the treatment. Stopping in the middle can be more dangerous than the disease itself."

"I'd be crazy to stop."

"When is your next visit?"

Bradley never answered because his father stepped between them.

"Not another word," Senator Jenkins hissed at Harvey.

"Ibllow me." Harvey did as the senator asked. He followed him down the long corridor, keeping a yard or two between them. Senator Stephen Jenkins stopped at the last door, opened it, glanced back down the corridor to make sure no one was looking, and then waved for Harvey to enter. He closed the door behind them.

They were in Dr. Lowell's library now, a huge, two-level room jammed from floor to high ceiling with thick, leather-covered books. There was a sliding ladder to facilitate getting volumes from the higher shelves and a catwalk that circled the room like a running track. Dark oak was the color of the shelves, the floor, the furniture.

Senator Jenkins began to pace.

"You should know better than to speak to my son in public."

"We were just talking," Harvey said.

"This is a party. People talk."

"Do you know what would happen if people found out the truth about Bradley?" Harvey paused.

"Peace in the Middle East?"

"Don't get cute with me, Riker."

"Nuclear armageddon? The end of Friday the Thirteenth sequels?"

"I owe you, Dr. Riker, but don't push me."

Harvey's tone was brisk.

"You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my son's life."

"We don't know that. Only time will tell for sure."

"Still," the senator said, "it is encouraging. I'm very grateful."

"I'm. touched."

"I also heard about the death of your partner Dr. Grey. My condolences."

"Care to make a public donation to his favorite charity?"

The senator chuckled without humor.

"No."

"Then how about getting the Senate to vote us more funds?"

"You know I can't do that. The media and my opponents will tear me apart."

"For helping cure a deadly disease?"

"For spending the voters' hard-earned tax dollars to help a bunch of immoral, limp-wristed perverts."

"Like your son?"

The senator lowered his head.

"Low blow, Riker. Very low.

If it ever got out that Bradley was..." He stopped.

"Gay?" Harvey finished for him.

"Is that the word you're looking for? Well, it won't. Not from me, at least."

"Then I'll do what I can to help the clinic discreetly, of course." Senator Jenkins paused for a moment, thinking.

"Besides," he continued, "there are other ways to raise more money without involving me."

"Like how?"

"Make your results public."

"It's still too early."

"It's never too early," Jenkins said.

"You don't think there're rumors about your success in Washington? How do you think I found out about it? All you have to do is show the media some of your test cases. Show them that Krutzer kid or Raul Leander."

Harvey almost smiled.

"What about Bradley? The son of a senator would certainly draw more attention than a couple of unknown gays."

"You can't use him."

"Even if it means saving more lives or is your son the only homosexual worth saving?"

"You cannot use Bradley, Riker. That's final. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Senator. I understand that some things are more important than human lives like reelection campaigns."

The senator stepped closer. He was a big man and he towered over the smaller doctor.

"I'm getting a little tired of your moral outrage, Dr. Riker. You're out of your league here, and I've seen smaller mistakes ruin a man."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm warning you. Someone might decide to step on you if you become too bothersome."

Harvey returned the senator's glare.

"You must be mistaking me for somebody who gives a shit," he replied evenly.

"If my clinic goes down the tubes, a certain right-wing, narrow-minded senator from Arkansas would go with me."

Senator Jenkins shook his head. "You're so goddamn blind, Riker. You don't even understand what you're involved in here."

"So tell me."

"Your cause has more than its share of enemies," Jenkins continued.

"There are plenty of people who would not mind putting an end to your research. Powerful people."

"Like your Jenkins stepped back and shook his head.

"I'm just trying to save my son's life," he said softly.

"But there are important people who want the clinic closed...

permanently."

"I'm aware of that. I can handle it."

Senator Stephen Jenkins walked toward the door and opened it.

"No," he said, "I don't think you can."

Sara stared at Michael and Cassandra. Her hand gripped her cane to the point where her knuckles turned white. She fought off the desire to bash Cassandra with the same cane. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Sara knew that she was playing into her sister's hand, that Cassandra was just trying to bait her. But Sara still felt a flush of anger and jealousy that colored her cheeks red.

Lord knows she should be used to Cassandra by now.

Sara cleared her throat and began to step toward them when somebody blocked her path.

"Good evening, Miss. Lowell."

Sara looked up, surprised.

"Good evening, Reverend Sanders." "Please," the minister said, his famous smile spread across his face, "a moment of your time."

He escorted her toward the empty corridor and out of view.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Sara began.

And what the hell are you doing here anyway?

"The Holy Crusade is a large contributor to your father's organization," he explained.

"Your father had no choice but to invite a representative from our organization. Since I've always wanted to meet the prestigious Dr. Lowell, I decided to be that representative."

"I see," Sara replied.

"Yes, Miss. Lowell, despite your biased hatchet job on the Holy Crusade and what we believe as God-fearing "

"I did not mention beliefs in my report," Sara interrupted.

"I discussed finances and taxes." Sanders smiled.

"You think you are so clever, don't you, Miss. Lowell? Do you really think that your petty report can hurt my ministry? You are a stupid woman. In trying to destroy me, you have done the very opposite."

Sara leaned against her cane.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but if you'll excuse me..."

She began to hobble back toward the party, but Sanders reached out and gripped her elbow firmly.

"The money has been pouring in since we went off the air, Miss. Lowell.

My 800 number is ringing like crazy. The free publicity from the show "

"Let go of me or start singing soprano."

His grip tightened.

"Your attacks on me have mobilized my supporters. The righteous see a threat, and they are rising to help-"

"Is there a problem here?"

Sanders released Sara's arm and spun quickly toward the voice. His smile was back in place.

"Why, you're Michael Silverman! The basketball star! I'm a big fan of yours. Pleasure to meet you, sir."

Sara watched as Sanders stuck out his hand. Michael's eyes were burning, his temper just barely reined in. Sara moved toward Michael and caressed his shoulder. Michael's muscles were taut and knotted. He continued to ignore the reverend's outstretched hand. A few seconds later Sanders withdrew it, his smile faltering just slightly.

"Yes, well, it was nice chatting with you all," Sanders rambled, "but I really must be going back to the party now."

"Oh must you?" Michael countered.

Sanders was sweating profusely now.

"I look forward to seeing you both at the party," he said.

"Good- bye, Miss. Lowell."

"Good- bye, Reverend."

Sanders turned toward Michael.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Silverman, the Holy Crusade is a big supporter of Israel. I thought you should know."

Michael watched Sanders disappear down the corridor.

"Permission to beat his head in."

"Permission denied... for now."

"You never let me have fun anymore," Michael said, beginning to relax a little.

"I'm sorry."

"And he's a big supporter of Israel. Isn't that nice, honi bet some of his best friends are Jewish."

Sara nodded.

"He probably wants to convert."

"I'll perform the briss."

Michael hugged Sara tightly.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Tine," Sara replied. She took off her glasses and wiped them with Michael's handkerchief.

"So what have you been up to tonight, my valiant hero?"

Michael shrugged.

"The usual saving small children from fires, fighting crime in the streets, getting pawed by your sister."

Sara laughed.

"Cassandra can be a tad aggressive."

"Just a tad like Napoleon. You weren't upset, were you?" "Me?" Sara asked.

"Never. I did, however, feel this strong desire to bash her head in with my cane."

"That's my girl."

"You fought her off bravely, I suppose."

He put his fist to his chest.

"My chastity remains intact."

"Good."

"By the way, you were great tonight."

She arched her eyebrows.

"I meant on the show, silly girl. No wonder Sanders was pissed off.

You tore his ass to pieces."

"But he's probably right, Michael. All the expose will do is galvanize his supporters and gain him a few new ones."

"In the short run maybe. But even imbeciles learn eventually."

"They're not imbeciles. A little gullible perhaps..."

"Whatever," he replied, taking her hand.

"Ready to face your adoring public?"

"Not really."

"Good. Then follow me, my little kitten."

"Where?"

"You mentioned something earlier in the evening about my having my way with you."

"Did I? I don't remember."

"It was right after you referred to me as the Stud Machine."

"Oh," she said, moving toward the stairwell.

"Now I remember."

"Senator Jenkins!"

Stephen Jenkins turned toward the voice. His painted, vote getting smile, already applied to his jowly face, was holding up quite nicely.

"Hello, Reverend. How wonderful to see you!"

Senator Jenkins and Reverend Sanders exchanged firm handshakes.

Sanders, the senator knew, was one of the most influential men in the South. Over the course of the past decade, the religious right had been crucial in Senator Jenkins' reelection campaigns, and no one delivered their votes like the Reverend Ernest Sanders. If Sanders was on your side, he praised you as a descendant of the Prophets. If he was against you, well, Satan received kinder treatment in his sermons.

Luckily for Jenkins, the reverend had backed him. Without his grassroots support, the senator might have lost on the last go-around to that upstart liberal the Democrats had pitted against him.

"Thank you, Stephen. Quite a party, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," Jenkins replied.

Without so much as a head nod or knowing glance, the two men stepped down the long corridor, out of earshot and sight.

Their smiles quickly dissolved away. Ernest Sanders leaned toward Jenkins' ear, his face tight and set.

"I'm not very happy about the guest list for this party," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"What the hell is Dr. Harvey Riker doing here?"

"He's very close to John's daughter," Jenkins explained.

"This is not good, Stephen. His being here... it helps give him a certain legitimacy, don't you think?"

The senator nodded, though he really did not agree. He also knew his old friend John Lowell was a hell of a lot more upset at Sanders being here than Riker. John had made it very clear he did not want anyone to know of his association with the televangelist.

"A lot has been happening lately," Sanders continued.

"We'd best prepare ourselves. I think we should all meet next week."

"Where?"

"At Bethesda."

The senator nodded again.

"Are you in town for long, Reverend?""

"No," Sanders replied.

"I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon. I only came up for the interview and... how should I put it?" He paused, thinking.