Miracle Cure (8 page)

Will you help me investigate this?"

"I'll get on it right away," she said.

"I have a friend in homicide, a Detective Max Bernstein.

"I'll speak to him about it. But I have another suggestion."

"What?"

She hesitated.

"Let me do a story on the clinic."

"Huh?"

"Well run it live on Newsflash. The positive publicity will force the government to refinance the clinic." "I don't know, Sara," he said.

"It might piss off Washington."

"So what?" she countered.

"You'll have all of America on your side after this report. The politicians wouldn't dare close you down." Harvey looked down and said nothing for a few minutes.

"Harv?"

"Can you keep our location and identity a secret?" he asked.

"No names of doctors, no names of patients, nothing like that?

I won't risk a patient's confidentiality."

"No problem."

He looked around, his eyes misty and afraid.

"If you think it will work..."

"It has to," Sara urged.

"Like you said before, it's time to let the world know."

Harvey nodded.

"Okay then. Do it." He shook his head, in some vain attempt to clear it. His face fought to look cheerful.

"Now let's change subjects for a while. How are you doing?" "Actually," Sara said with a hint of a smile, "I need a small favor."

"Name it."

"I need you to find me a good obstetrician."

Now it was Harvey's turn to look surprised.

"Jesus, Sara, are you...?

She shrugged, trying to contain her excitement. She wanted so damn much to say yes, to see Michael's face after a positive test result came back.

"Right now, I'm just late."

"Maybe this is an insensitive question, but what about your career?"

"No problem there. I can still tape the shows up until the birth and the networks love the publicity of a maternity leave. Boosts ratings through the roof."

"Can you be at Columbia Presbyterian tomorrow morning at ten?"

"Yes."

"Good. Ask for Dr. Carol Simpson. She'll know you're coming." He paused, his voice becoming serious.

"I know you and Michael have been trying for a long time, Sara. Have you told him?"

She shook her head.

"I'd rather wait for the results of the test.

I don't want to build up his hopes if it's just another false alarm."

"Do you mind if I meet you there?"

"I'd like that."

"Great.

"I'll see you then."

"Harvey?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget to talk to Michael about his stomach. He won't say anything, but it's really giving him some problems."

"I'll speak to him right away."

George sat in his car behind lush shrubbery at the foot of Dr. Lowell's driveway. He checked his gold Piaget. Getting late. The party was winding down now. Most of the guests had already left.

George had been sitting in the car for hours, watching while his intended victim drove up the driveway in a shiny limousine.

The poor soul was in the large mansion now, enjoying Dom Perignon champagne and foie gras, hobnobbing with the jet set, never knowing that in a few hours the knife in George's hand would slit open his arteries and extinguish his life forever.

He examined the stiletto blade front and back. Even in the dark, it gleamed menacingly.

A limousine drove down the driveway and past him. George looked up. He recognized the license plate immediately. The familiar adrenalin coursed through his veins.

He turned the ignition key and followed.

It was a two-on-one fast break. Michael had faced hundreds of them in his career, maybe thousands.

He watched as the New York Knickv number one draft pick, a scrawny black kid from Memphis State named Jerome Holloway, dribbled toward him with lightning speed. On Jerome's left ran the Knick's second round pick, Mark Boone, a big white guy from Brigham Young who looked like a giant farmhand. The two kids bore down on the old veteran with determination in their eyes.

Come to Papa, Michael thought.

Michael knew better than anyone how to defend two men against one: confuse them especially the man dribbling the ball.

The key was to make the Holloway kid throw an errant pass or to stall him long enough for Michael's teammates, his reinforcements, to arrive.

Michael head-faked back and forth, alternating between blocking Holloway's trail to the basket and picking up the free man Boone. He looked, he thought, suspiciously like a man having a fit. But that was okay better to shake up the rookies.

Jerome Holloway headed straight toward the basket. At the last moment Michael stepped in his way. Jerome leaped, his eyes desperately seeking Boone streaking down the other side. Michael almost smiled.

Once Holloway's feet had left the ground, he had committed. A mistake.

A pure rookie mistake. Predictably, the kid looked panicky and began to move his arms toward his chest, preparing to throw the ball to Boone.

Like taking candy from a baby.

Michael slid between the two, readying himself to steal the pass and head back down the court for a fast break in his favor.

He had done the same thing countless times before. Games had been decided by such a switch in momentum. Michael stepped forward and extended his hand into the passing lane, just as Holloway was about to release the ball.

But Holloway pulled back. The passing movement and panicked expression had been a fake. Completely out of position now, Michael watched while Holloway grinned, cupped the ball between his hand and forearm, and glided toward the cylinder.

The dunk crashed through the basket with remarkable force. The backboard vibrated from the assault.

Holloway landed and turned toward Michael. The grin was still on his face.

Out of breath, Michael managed, "I know, I know. In my face, right?"

Jerome shrugged.

"You said it, old dude, not me. But I do love playing against legends."

"This is just practice, kid. We're on the same team."

"Knicks to the end. By the way, nice shorts."

"You don't like them?"

"Pink and aqua flowers? Very hip."

They ran up court. Sweat soaked all ten players running through the scrimmage. Their bodies glistened in the dim light.

Michael felt hot, tired, and a touch out of shape. His stomach was not helping matters much.

The upcoming season would be Michael's twelfth with the New York Knicks. He had begun, like Holloway, as a number one draft pick.

Coming out of Stanford at age twenty-two, Michael had been a superstar his first year in the NBA, winning the Rookie of the Year Award and making the All-Star team. That same year the Knicks went from last place in the Eastern Conference to second place a twenty-game swing-around. The next year Michael led them to the finals, where they lost in a seven-game showdown to the Phoenix Suns. Two years later he collected his first NBA championship ring. He had won three in his career with the Knicks, been named to the All-Star team ten times, and been the league's leader in steals and assists for eight seasons.

Not bad for an old dude.

Michael, an all-purpose shooting guard, did it all. There were many who could score like him, a few who could rebound like!

him, a couple who could pass like him, but next to none whoj could play defense like him. Add it all up and you had the kin of player every championship team needs.

"What's the matter, Michael? Feeling your age. Haul ass!"

Michael could hear himself suck in air. The voice belo to the Knick's new head coach, Richie Crenshaw. Richie had a second round pick by the Boston Celtics the same year Michael was drafted by the Knicks. There had been something of a IT between the two during Crenshaw's playing days, but for the most' part it was an amicable rivalry. The two men always got along off the court. Now Richie Crenshaw was Michael's coach and still his good friend.

Eat shit, Richie, Michael shouted. But only to himself.

His lungs burned in his chest, his throat was dry. He was getting older, goddamn it even though the gods of health had smiled upon Michael for his first ten-plus NBA seasons. No injuries. He had had a boating accident a few years ago, but that took place off-season so it didn't count. Only two games missed in almost ten full seasons and those were the result of a minor groin pull. Remarkable, really.

Unheard of. Then something must have really pissed off the gods.

Michael had landed wrong in a game against the Washington Bullets, twisting his knee. To make matters worse, Big Burt Wesson, the Bullet's 270-pound enforcer, crashed into Michael on the play.

Michael's foot remained firmly planted on the floor. His knee did not.

It bent the wrong way backwards in fact. There a snapping sound and Michael's scream filled the stadium.

Out of basketball for over a year.

The cast on his leg had been enormous and about as comfortable as wearing a jock-strap made of tweed. He hobbled around for months, listening to Sara tease him.

"Stop imitating my limp. It's not a very nice thing to do."

"Great. I married a comedienne."

"We can be a comedy team," Sara had enthused.

"The Gimpy Couple. Well limp our way to laughter. We'll be as funny as a rubber crutch."

"Awful, Horrendous. Not even remotely funny. Stop."

"Not funny? Then we'll become a dance team. Limp to your left. Limp to your right. We can switch leg braces during a tango."

"Stop. Help. Police. Somebody shoot."

Michael and Sara had both recognized that he might not be able to come back; they were prepared for it. Michael had never been a stupid jock who thought that a basketball career would last forever. There was talk in the Republican party about running him for Congress when he retired. But Michael was not ready to call it quits. Not yet anyway.

He worked hard for a full, painful year with the therapist Harvey had found for him and rebuilt his shattered knee.

Now he was trying to get himself back into playing condition at the Knicks' pre-season camp. But while the knee felt okay in its vise-like brace, his stomach was slowing him down. He had promised Harvey last night that he would swing by the clinic before three o'clock for a complete check-up. With a little luck, Harv would take a few tests, see it was just some stupid bug again, give him a shot of antibiotics, and send him on his way.

Harvey. Jesus Christ, what was going on? Michael and Sara had gotten little sleep last night. They drove home, made love again in a tangle of party clothes, then sat up and analyzed what Harvey had told them.

If what Harvey said last night was true, if he had indeed found a treatment for the AIDS virus... One of Michael's teammates set a pick for him. Michael used the screen and ran from the left side of the court to the right.

He caught a glimpse of the wall clock and saw it was ten. Another hour, and then he would go uptown and see Harvey. At the Clinic.

Capital C in his mind.

Michael was not looking forward to that visit. Immature to say but the place gave him the creeps. He was not sure if it was the magnitude of the disease or his not-so-latent homophobia, but the place intimidated him. Terrified him actually.

To be honest, Michael had never been all that comfortable with gays.

Yes, he believed that homosexuals should be treated like everyone else, that their private lives were their own business, that discrimination against someone because of his sexual preference was wrong. He recognized that Sanders and his gang of mentally malnourished bigots were deranged and dangerous people. But still, Michael found himself making the occasional gay joke, referring to someone effeminate as "that big fag," keeping away from someone who was a "blatant fruit." He remembered when his teammate Tim Hiller, a good friend and apparently a ladies man, shocked the sports world by admitting he was gay. Michael had stood beside him, supported him, defended him, but at the same time, he distanced himself from Tim. Their friendship did not crumble; Michael just let it slowly slide away. He felt bad about that.

Back on the court the ball was passed to Reece Porter, | Michael's closest friend on the team and the only Knick besides Michael who was over thirty. Reece spotted Michael and tossed him the ball.

"Do it, Mikey," Reece cried.

Michael made a beautiful fake on the rookie Holloway, dribbled down the middle of the key, and laid up a soft shot.

As Michael watched the ball float gently toward the basket, Jerome Holloway came flying into view. The rookie smacked the ball with his palm, sending the orange sphere off the court and into the seats. A clean block.

Again the rookie grinned.

Michael held up his hand.

"Don't say it. Faced again, right?"

The cocky grin strengthened.

"The word Spaulding is imprinted on your forehead, old dude."

Michael heard the laughter. It was coming from Reece Porter.

"What the hell are you laughing at?"

Reece could barely control himself.

"Old dude," he managed between cackles.

"You going to take that shit, Mikey?"

Michael turned back toward Holloway.

"Take the ball out of bounds, hotshot, and dribble up while I cover you."

"One- on-one?" the kid asked in disbelief.

"You got it."

"I'll blow by you so fast you'll wonder if I was ever there."

Michael grinned.

"Yeah, right. Come on, hotshot."

Jerome Holloway caught the ball. He took two dribbles and began to accelerate toward Michael. He was six feet past him when he realized that he no longer had the ball.

"What the?"

Holloway spun in time to see Michael making an uncontested lay-up. Now it was Michael's turn to smile.

Jerome Holloway laughed.

"I know, I know. In my face, right?"

Reece whooped and hooted like a lottery winner.

"Bet your sweet ass, brother. You've been faced something awful."

"Guess so," Holloway agreed.

"You know something, Michael? You're a smart old dude. I bet I can learn a lot watching you." Old dude. Michael sighed heavily.

"Thanks, Jerome."

A whistle blew.

"Take five," Coach Crenshaw shouted.

"Get a quick drink and then I want everyone to take fifty foul shots."

The players jogged toward the water fountain all save Michael. He stayed where he was bent forward, his hand leaning on his knees. Richie Crenshaw walked over.

"I've seen you look better, Michael." Michael continued to draw in deep breaths.

"Appreciate the pep talk, Coach."

"Well, it's true. You wouldn't want me to lie to you, would you?"

"Maybe a little."

"The knee giving you problems?"

Michael shook his head.

"You look like something's bothering you."

"I'm " The next word never came out. A surge of white-hot pain pierced right through Michael's abdomen. He let loose a loud, short cry and clutched his belly below the ribcage.

"Michael!"

The shout came from Jerome Holloway. Wide-eyed with fear, the rookie sprinted back on the court. Reece Porter quickly followed.

"Mikey," Reece asked while kneeling beside him, "what is it?"

Michael did not answer. He collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.

It felt like something was raking at his insides with sharpened claws.

"Call an ambulance!" Reece shouted.

"Now!"

Dr. Carol Simpson escorted Sara to the waiting area in the Atchley Pavilion. Located next to Columbia Presbyterian's main building, the Atchley Pavilion housed the private offices of the medical center's many physicians. When Harvey had taken Michael and Sara on a tour of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center last year, Sara remembered being awe-struck by the size of the center, to say nothing of its reputation.

There was Babies Hospital, the well-known pediatric hospital, and the Harkness Pavilion, where the private patients stayed. The Neurological Institute and the Psychiatric Institute, both housed in their own buildings, were considered the best in their field anywhere in the world, not to mention the Harkness Eye Institute, New York Orthopedic Hospital, Sloane Hospital, Squier Urological Clinic, Vanderbilt Clinic, and the massive, newly completed Milstein Hospital Building.

And all of this medical brilliance had been jammed west of Broadway between 165th and 168th Street in Spanish Harlem.

A block or two farther west and north was student housing for Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons, again one of the most reputable and selective medical schools in the country.

But another five blocks farther north was J. Hood Wright Park, a respectable name for one of the original crack alleys, where passers-by can witness or partake in drug trafficking. Its proximity to the hospital, Harvey had half-joked, made it a convenient place to overdose.

One of the newest and smallest sections of the medical center, almost hidden from view, was near 164th Street. From the outside one would never guess that the broken-down edifice was dedicated to healing and experimental medicine. Named Sidney Pavilion after Harvey Riker's brother, this area of epidemiological study was cloaked in secrecy and security. No one could enter without the permission of Dr. Harvey Riker or Dr. Eric Blake. Staff and patients were kept to a minimum, and all had been specially selected by Riker and the late Dr. Bruce Grey personally. The medical center's board members rarely, if ever, discussed the new section in public.

Dr. Simpson showed Sara to a chair and then went to a window where she handed a test tube filled with Sara's blood to a nurse.

"Take this to the lab. Have them run a beta HCG stat."