Miracle Cure (1991)

  Miracle Cure (1991)

  Coben, Harlan

  Published: 2011

  Miracle Cure

  Harlan Coben

  *

  PROLOGUE:

  Friday, August 30

  Dr. Bruce Grey Tried Not To Walk Too Fast.

  He slowed his pace, fighting off the temptation to sprint across th e s oiled floor of Kennedy Airport's International Arrivals Building, pas t t he customs officials, and out into the humid night air. His eye s s hifted from side to side. Every few steps he would feign a soreness i n h is neck to give himself the opportunity to glance behind him and mak e s ure he was not being followed.

  Stop it! Bruce told himself. Stop lurking around like a poor man's James Bond. You're shaking like a malaria patient, for chrissake. You couldn't l ook more conspicuous if you wore a sign.

  He strolled past the luggage carousel, nodding politely at the littl e o ld lady who had sat next to him on the flight. The old woman had no t s hut her mouth during the entire trip, gabbing on about her family, he r l ove of flying, her last trip overseas. She was sweet enough, jus t s omebody's grandmother, but Bruce still closed his eyes and pretended t o b e asleep in order to get a little peace and quiet. But, of course , sleep had not come to him. It would not come for some time yet.

  But maybe she wasn't just some sweet, little old lady, Brucie boy.

  Maybe she was following you ... He dismissed the voice with a nervou s s hake of the head.

  This whole thing was turning his brain into sewer sludge. First, he wa s s ure that the bearded man on the plane had been following him. Then i t w as the big guy with the slicked-back hair and Armani suit at th e t elephone booth. And don't forget the pretty blonde by the termina l e xit. She had been following him too.

  Now it was a little old lady.

  Get a grip on yourself, Brude. Paranoia is not what we need right now.

  Clear thinking, old pal that's what we're looking for.

  Bruce moved past the luggage carousel an dover to the customs official.

  "Passport, please."

  Bruce handed the man his passport.

  "No luggage, sir?"

  He shook his head.

  "Only this carry-on."

  The customs officer glanced at the passport and then at Bruce.

  "You look quite different from your photograph."

  Bruce tried to force a tired smile to his lips but it would not hold.

  The humidity was almost unbearable. His dress shirt was pasted agains t h is skin, his tie loosened to the point of being nearly untied. Beads o f p erspiration dotted his forehead.

  "I . I've gone through a few changes."

  "A few? You're a dark-haired man with a beard in this picture."

  "I know-"

  "Now you're a clean-shaven blond."

  "Like I said, I went through a few changes." Luckily, you can't tell ey e c olor from a passport photo or you would want to know why I changed m y e yes from brown to blue.

  The customs official did not appear convinced.

  "Were you traveling on business or pleasure?"

  "Pleasure."

  "You always pack this lightly?"

  Bruce swallowed and managed a shrug.

  "I hate waiting for checked luggage."

  The customs official swung his line of vision from the passpor t p hotograph to Bruce's face and then back again.

  "Would you open your bag, please?"

  Bruce could barely keep his hands steady enough to set the combination.

  It took him three tries before it finally snapped open.

  "There you go."

  The customs official's eyes narrowed into thin slits as he rummage d t hrough the belongings.

  "What are these?" he asked.

  Bruce closed his eyes, his breath coming in short gasps.

  "Some files."

  "I can see that," the official replied.

  "What are they for?" "I'm a doctor," Bruce explained, his voic e c racking.

  "I wanted to review some of my patients' charts while I was away."

  "Do you always do that when you're on vacation?"

  "Not always."

  "What type of doctor are you?"

  "An internist at Columbia Presbyterian," Bruce replied, telling a h alf-truth. He decided to leave out the fact that he was also an exper t i n public health and epidemiology.

  "I see," the official replied.

  "I wish my doctor was that dedicated."

  Again Bruce tried to smile. Again it was a failed attempt.

  "And this sealed envelope?"

  Bruce felt his whole body quake.

  "Excuse me?"

  "What is in this manila envelope?"

  He willed a casual look on his face.

  "Oh, that's just some medical information I'm sending to a colleague,"

  he managed.

  The customs official's eyes locked onto Bruce's bloodshot ones for a fe w l ong moments.

  "I see," he said, slowly putting the envelope back in the bag. When th e c ustoms official finished going through the rest of the carry-on, h e s igned Bruce's customs dedaration and handed him back his passport.

  "Give the card to the woman on your way out."

  Bruce reached for the bag.

  "Thank you."

  "And Doctor?"

  Bruce looked up.

  "You might want to visit one of your colleagues," the customs officia l s aid.

  "If you don't mind a layman giving medical opinions, you look awful."

  ""I'll do that."

  Bruce lifted the bag and glanced behind him. The little old lady wa s s till waiting for her luggage. The man with the beard and the prett y b londe were nowhere in sight. The big guy in the Armani suit was stil l t alking on the phone.

  Bruce moved away from the customs desk. His right hand gripped his ba g w ith excessive vigor; his left hand rubbed his face. He handed th e c ustoms declaration to the woman and walked through the sliding glas s d oors into the waiting area. A sea of anxious faces greeted him.

  People stood on their toes, peering out from all points with each swis h o f the glass doors before lowering their heads in disappointment when a n u nfamiliar face approached the threshold.

  Bruce moved steadily past the waiting friends and relatives, past th e b ored limousine drivers with name signs held up against their chests.

  He made his way to the Japan Air Lines ticket counter on the right.

  "Is there a mailbox near here?" he asked.

  "To your right," the woman replied.

  "By the Air France desk."

  "Thank you."

  He walked by a garbage can and casually dropped his torn up boardin g p ass into it. He had considered himself very clever to book the fligh t u nder an assumed name very clever, that is, until he got to the airpor t a nd was informed that you could not have an international ticket issue d u nder a different name than the one on your passport.

  Whoops.

  Luckily, there had been plenty of space on the flight. Even though h e h ad to purchase another ticket for himself, reserving one under an alia s h ad not been such a dumb idea. Before his actual departure date, no on e c ould have found out what flight he was booked on because his name wa s n ot in the computer.

  Pure genius on his part.

  Yessiree, Brucie. You are a regular genius.

  Yeah, right. Genius. Bullshit.

  He located the mail slot near the Air France desk. A few passenger s s poke to the airline representative. None of them paid him the slightes t a ttention. His eyes quickly checked the room.

  The old lady, the bearded man, and the pretty blonde had either left o r w ere still going through customs. The only "spy" he could still see wa s t he big
guy in the Armani suit who now moved hurriedly through th e s liding glass doors and out of the terminal.

  Brace let loose a sigh of relief. No one was looking at him now. He t urned his attention back to the mail slot. His hand reached into hi s b ag and quickly slipped the sealed manila envelope down the chute. Hi s i nsurance policy was safely on its way.

  Now what?

  He certainly could not go home. If anyone was searching for him, hi s a partment on the Upper West Side would be the first place they woul d l ook. The dink was no good at this hour of the night, either. Someon e c ould nab him there just as easily.

  Look, I'm not very good at this. I'm just your average run-of-the mil l d octor who went to college, went to medical school, got married, had a k id, finished residency, got divorced, lost custody of the kid, and no w w orks too hard. I'm not up to playing I Spy.

  But what other choice did he have? He could go to the police, but wh o w ould believe him? He had no real evidence yet. Hell, he wasn't eve n s ure what was going on himself. What could he tell the police?

  Try this on for size, Brucie: "Help! Protect me! Two people have alread y b een murdered and countless others may join them including me!"

  Maybe true. Maybe not. Question: what did he really know for sure?

  Answer: not a hell of lot. More like nothing. By going to the police , Brace knew he would do little more than destroy the clinic and all th e i mportant work they had accomplished there.

  He had dedicated the last three years to that research, and he was no t a bout to give those damn bigots the weapon they needed to kill th e p roject. No, he would have to handle it a different way.

  But how?

  He checked once more to make sure he was not being followed. All hi s e nemy spies were gone now. That was good.

  That was a nice bit of relief. He hailed a yellow taxi and jumped int o t he backseat.

  "Where to?" Bruce thought for a moment, mulling over every thriller h e h ad ever read. Where would George Smiley go, or better still, Travis Mcgee or Spenser?

  "The Plaza, please."

  The taxi pulled away. Bruce watched out the back window.

  No cars seemed to be following as the taxi began its journey down the Van Wyck Expressway toward Manhattan. Bruce settled back, letting hi s h ead rest against the seat. He tried to breathe deeply and relax, but h e s till found himself trembling in fear.

  Think, goddamn it. This is no time to catnap.

  First, he needed a new alias. His eyes moved left and right, finall y r esting on the taxi driver's name on the displayed license.

  Benjamin Johnson. Bruce turned the name around. John Benson.

  That would be his name until tomorrow. John Benson. Just until tomorrow.

  Now if he could just stay alive until then ... He dared not think tha t f ar ahead.

  Everyone at the clinic thought he was still on vacation in Cancun , Mexico. No one absolutely no one knew the whole vacation idea was merel y a diversion. Bruce had played the role of happy traveler to the utmost.

  He had bought beachwear, flown down to Cancun last Friday, checked int o t he Cancun Oasis Hotel, prepaid for the week, and told the concierg e t hat he would be renting a boat and could not be reached.

  Then he shaved his beard, cut and bleached his hair, and put o n b lue-tinted contact lenses. Even Bruce had trouble recognizing the imag e i n the mirror. He returned to the airport, left Mexico, checked in a t h is true destination under the name Rex feneto, and began to investigat e h is horrible suspicions.

  The truth, however appeared to be more shocking than he had imaged.

  The taxi slowed now in front of the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. Th e l ights of Central Rark twinkled from across the street and to the north.

  Bruce paid the driver, tipping him no more or less than the prope r a mount, and strolled into the lush lobby of the hotel. Despite hi s d esigner suit, he felt conspicuously sloppy. His jacket was heavil y c reased, his pants completely wrinkled. He looked like something left i n t he bottom of a laundry hamper for a week hardly what his mother woul d h ave called presentable.

  He began to walk toward the reception desk when something he barel y s potted out of the corner of his eye made him stop.

  It's just your imagination, Bruce. It's not the same guy. It can't be.

  Bruce felt his pulse quicken. He spun around, but the big guy in the Armani suit was nowhere in sight. Had he really seen the same man?

  Probably not, but there was no reason to take chances. He left the hote l b y the back entrance and walked toward the subway. He purchased a token , took the train down to Fourteenth Street, switched to the A train to Forty-second Street, cut cross town on the 7 train, jumping off the ca r s econds before the doors closed at Third Avenue. He changed train s h aphazardly for another half an hour, jumping on or off at the las t p ossible second each time, before ending up on Fifty-sixth Street and Eighth Avenue. Then "John Benson" walked a few blocks and checked into the Days Inn, a hote l w here Dr. Bruce Grey had never stayed.

  When he got up to his room on the eleventh floor, he locked the door an d s lid the chain into place.

  Now what?

  A phone call was risky, but Bruce decided to take the chance.

  He would speak to Harvey for only a few moments, then hang up. He picke d u p the phone and dialed his partner's home phone.

  Harvey answered on the second ring.

  "Hello?"

  "Harvey, it's me."

  "Bruce?" Harvey sounded surprised.

  "How's everything in Cancun?" .

  Bruce ignored the question.

  "I need to speak to you."

  "Christ, you sound awful. What's wrong?"

  Bruce closed his eyes.

  "Not over the phone."

  "What are you talking about?" Harvey asked.

  "Are you still ?"

  "Not over the phone," he repeated, "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow? What the hell is going ?"

  "Don't ask me any more questions.

  "I'll meet you tomorrow morning at six-thirty."

  "Where?"

  "At the clinic."

  "Jesus, are you in danger? Is this about the murders?"

  "I can't talk any mo " Click.

  Bruce froze. There was a noise at his door.

  "Bruce?" Harvey cried.

  "What is it? What's going on?"

  Bruce's heart began to race. His eyes never left the door.

  "Tomorrow," he whispered. ""I'll explain everything then."

  "But-" He gently replaced the receiver, cutting Harvey off.

  I'm not up for this. Oh, please, God, let my mind be playing tricks o n m e, I'm not up for this, I'm really not up for any of this ... There wa s n o other sound, and for a brief moment Bruce wondered if his overactiv e b rain cells had indeed imagined the whole thing. Maybe there had been n o s ound at all. And if there had been a noise, what was so strange abou t t hat? He was staying in a New York hotel, for chrissake, not a s oundproof studio.

  Maybe it was just a maid. Maybe it was just a bellhop.

  Maybe it was just a big guy with slicked-back hair and a custom mad e s ilk Armani suit.

  Bruce crept toward the door. The right leg slid forward, then the lef t t agged along. He had never been much of an athlete, had never been th e m ost coordinated guy in the world. Right now, it looked like he wa s d oing some kind of spastic fox trot.

  Click.

  His heart slammed into his throat. His legs went weak. There was n o m istaking where the sound had come from this time.

  His door.

  He stood frozen. His breathing reverberated in his ears so damn loudl y t hat he was sure everyone on the floor could hear it.

  Click.

  A short, quick click. Not a fumbling sound, but a very precise click.

  Run, Bruce. Run and hide.

  But where? He was in a small room on the eleventh floor of a hotel.

  Where the hell was he supposed to run
and hide? He took another ste p t oward the door.

  I can open it quickly, scream my brains out, and run down the hall lik e a n escaped psych patient. I could The knock came so suddenly that Bruc e n early screamed.

  "Who is it?" he practically shouted.

  "Towels," a man's voice said.

  Bruce moved closer to the door. Towels, my ass.

  "Don't need any," he called out without opening the door.

  Pause.

  "Okay. Good night, sir."

  He could hear Mr. Towel's footsteps move away from his door.

  Bruce pressed his back against the wall and continued to make his way t o t he door. His whole body shook. Despite the room's powerful ai r c onditioning, sweat drenched his clothing and matted his hair dow n a gainst his forehead.

  Now what?

  The peephole, Mr. James Friggin' Bond. Look through the peephole.

  Bruce obeyed the voice within his head. He slowly turned and put his ey e a gainst the peephole. Nothing. Nada, as the Mexicans say. There was n o o ne there, not a damn thing. He tried to look to his left and then hi s r ight And that was when the door flew open.

  The chain broke as though it were a thread. The metal knob slamme d a gainst the point of Bruce's hip. Pain shot through the whole area.

  Instinctively he tried to cover his hip with his hand.

  That proved to be a mistake. From behind the door a large fist cam e f lying toward Bruce's face. He tried to duck, but his reflexes were to o s low. The knuckles landed with a horrid thud against the bridge of Bruce's nose, crushing the bones and cartilage. Blood flowed quickl y f rom his nostrils.

  Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet God ...

  Bruce stumbled back, reaching for his nose. The big guy in the Arman i s uit stepped into the room and closed the door. He moved with a spee d a nd grace that defied his great bulk.

  "Please " Bruce managed before a powerful hand the size of a boxer's g love clamped over his mouth, silencing him. The hand carelessly knocke d a gainst the flattened nostrils, pushing them upward and sending ho t s urges of pain through his face.

  The man smiled and nodded politely as if they had just been introduce d a t a cocktail party. Then he lifted his foot and threw a kick wit h e xpert precision. The blow shattered Bruce's kneecap.