Miracle Cure (1991) Page 29

  "Something you wanted to say?"

  Winston rubbed his face.

  "How do I know I can trust you?"

  "You don't. But if you don't cooperate, I'll pin Martino's murder o n y ou. That's a promise."

  For a brief moment Max and Winston locked eyes. It was Winston wh o l ooked away.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Who are you working for?"

  "All confidential, right?"

  "Right. Who are you working for?"

  Winston took a deep breath and released it.

  "I don't know.

  I'm a CIA operative, but I report to the Department of Health and Huma n s ervices."

  "To whom?"

  Winston shook his head.

  "No names."

  "Raymond Markey?" "I said, no names."

  "What is your function?"

  "Gathering information on the clinic."

  "What kind of information?"

  "Any and all."

  "And how do you go about it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "How do you gather your information?"

  Winston shrugged.

  "Simple. I snoop around. I break into the confidential files.

  Whatever it takes."

  "Is that what you were doing the night Harvey stumbled across you?"

  Winston paused. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in hi s m outh.

  "You gotta light?"

  Max shook his head.

  "I don't smoke. It's bad for you."

  "Yeah, sure, and chewing pencils is healthy, right?"

  "Were you in the clinic the night Martino was killed?"

  "I'd rather not answer that."

  "Then I'll take that as a yes."

  Winston O'Connor found a set of matches near a Bunsen burner. He lit th e c igarette and inhaled deeply, as though the cigarette were an oxyge n m ask and he was caught in a fire.

  "Take it anyway you want, Lieutenant. But I did not kill anyone."

  "Why did the NIH want all of this information?"

  "I don't like to theorize, Lieutenant."

  "Try."

  Another deep puff.

  "I assumed that the NIH wanted to check up on the clinic's progres s i ndependently. They got a big investment here, and Harv and Bruce can b e p retty damn secretive." Max thought for a moment.

  "Okay, tell me this: why did you report to Washington in person thre e d ays ago?"

  "My contact was worried."

  "About what?"

  "He didn't like the positive media reports about the clinic."

  "Why not?"

  Winston shrugged.

  "He wanted to know what Harvey was up to what he was going to do next."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "The truth. I can break into files and I can snoop around, but I canno t r ead another man's mind. I told them I had no idea."

  "What has the NIH said to you about Michael Silverman's kidnapping?"

  "Not a thing. I haven't spoken to them since the day I flew int o w ashington."

  "Has your contact ever mentioned the Gay Slasher?"

  "Never."

  "Do you think your employers are behind it?"

  Winston smiled, the cigarette dangling from his lip.

  "How fuckin' crazy do you think I am, Lieutenant?"

  Shrug.

  "How often did you break into the clinic's confidential files?"

  "About once a week, I guess."

  "During the daytime or the night?"

  "Night usually. When I thought no one would be around."

  Max nodded, pacing.

  "Except you didn't know Michael was on the third floor, did you , Winston?"

  "Huh?"

  Max walked toward him.

  "A few hours before Martino was murdered, a new patient had bee n s ecretly whisked into the room down the hall Michael Silverman.

  Naturally, you wanted to find out who he was. So you broke into Harvey's p rivate files that night."

  "Now hold on a minute." "But you screwed up," Max continued.

  "Dr. Riker was on the floor at the time. He heard you in the lab. So yo u k nocked Harvey out."

  "Slow down a second."

  "Then you went downstairs, killed Martino "

  "I didn't kill anybody!" he interrupted.

  "Okay, I admit it. I was in the lab that night. I broke into the fil e c abinet and saw Silverman's name. I knew the NIH boys would b e i nterested in him so I tried to find out more. That's when Har v i nterrupted me.

  I guess I panicked a little. My instructions were not to get caugh t u nder any circumstances. So when Harv came in the lab, I hit him in th e b ack of the neck. But I didn't kill Martino, I swear it."

  "You're a martial arts expert." It was more of a statement than a q uestion.

  "Yeah, so?"

  "And the blow to Sara's neck was delivered by a martial arts expert."

  "Whoa, back up a second, Lieutenant. I didn't touch Sara Lowell. Fo r t hat matter, I never touched her husband or Janice or that Martino guy.

  Christ, I felt awful when I heard about Janice.

  She was a fine woman." Winston lowered his head into his hands.

  "I never hurt anybody, I swear. I was just trying to gather informatio n f or a branch of the government that has every right to know what wa s g oing on in here. There is nothing illegal in that."

  "What else do you know?"

  "Nothing. I swear."

  Max stopped his pacing and restarted his nodding. "You better not b e h olding out on me. Or else."

  He had tried to sound tough, but it came out too whiny.

  Damn.

  "Tuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it. Yes. Ohhhh, Ohhhh, I'm c ommnngggg!"

  Michael tried to ignore the continuous cries of the prostitute in th e n ext room and consider his options.

  One, he could try to break the chain manacled to his ankle.

  The problem lay in the fact that the steel was rather secure; more t o t he point, it would not budge.

  He could yell out the window for help. But suppose George or hi s a ccomplices heard him?

  Three ... There was no three. He stood and tested how far the chai n w ould allow him to roam. He could get close to the window but not to th e d oor.

  George probably did that on purpose. The door was a scrawny-lookin g t hing with rotted wood and a lock that a strong gust of wind could brea k i n two.

  He sat back down, his nose throbbing painfully. Downstairs, the toples s b ar was in full swing now. The music was considerably louder tha n e arlier, the vibrations from the deep bass potent enough to reach insid e m ichael's chest. Prostitutes and their clients walked about freely i n t he hallway. Michael heard doors shut on both sides of his room. Then a w oman yelling: "Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it. Yes. Ohhhh, Ohhhh, I'm c ominnngggg!"

  The woman screamed into her fake orgasm. The man grunted into his rea l o ne.

  The sessions never lasted more than a couple of minutes.

  Then it would all start again. The prostitute would come upstairs with a n ew John. There would be the same giggling. The same fake orgasm.

  The same.

  "Fuck me" words shouted at the same rehearsed pitch. Over and over.

  Performance after performance.

  The woman's high-pitched squeals of delight were incessant, monotonous , passionless, as though Michael were listening to a robot or an actres s w ho had learned her lines too well.

  Okay, let's think this through. Harvey tells me Raymond Markey wants t o u se me as the clinic's guinea pig. Next thing I knew, I'm in the Orien t w ith a psychopath. So what can we conclude from all this.

  Just one thing:

  I have to get the hell out of here.

  Cramps ripped through his stomach. The cause, he knew, could be hi s h epatitis or withdrawal from the addictive SRI or.. or something new.

  Something AIDS-related.

  "Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah
, that's it ..."

  The very air had mingled with the sleazy surroundings, giving everythin g a round him a dense and seedy feel. Breathing nauseated him.

  The women's cries were maddening in their repetition, hour after hour , endless. He put his hands to his ears and tried to block them out, bu t t he sounds were right outside his door: "Come on, Frankie," a whore purred with a thick Asian accent.

  "Right behind you, sweetheart. Damn, I spilled my drink."

  "This way, Frankie. Tawnee going to show you good time, you see."

  "Might just be the other way around, honey," the man, an American , slurred. He was clearly inebriated.

  "I take care of your big cock. You see."

  "Bet your ass you will." The man stumbled, bumping into walls like a p inball.

  "You like that, Frankie?"

  "Yeah, that's wonderful."

  "You want to go in room now, Frankie?"

  "Sure thing, sweetheart."

  "Okay, but money before is for boss man. You give Tawnee big tip, yes?"

  "Let's talk about it in the room."

  Michael froze. He saw the doorknob turn.

  "No, Frankie, this way," the whore said.

  The door shook.

  "Damn door is stuck."

  "Over here, Frankie. That sign say no enter."

  "Fuck the sign, sweetheart.

  "I'll get us in. You just keep rubbing my balls."

  "No, Frankie, wrong room." Her warnings were more urgent now, bu t f rankie did not pay heed.

  "That's boss man's room, Frankie. He get mad. Come over here.

  Frankie!"

  Frankie threw his shoulder against the wood. The lock grudgingly gav e w ay. Michael's eyes widened as the door began to swing open.

  "No, Frankie, wrong room." The whore quickly reached through the portal.

  She maneuvered Frankie out of the way, fixed the lock, took hold of th e d oor, and began to swing it closed.

  For the briefest of moments she looked at Michael, her eyes stained wit h f ear and sympathy. Then she turned away. Michael's heart sank as th e d oor closed.

  "Come on, Frankie," the whore tried to enthuse.

  "We go have fun. You like too much."

  "I hope so, sweetheart. Let's party!"

  Then Michael heard another door open and close.

  Frankie's penis remained flaccid.

  "What's the matter, Frankie?" Tawnee asked.

  "You no like me?"

  Frankie looked down. The whore was licking his balls and doing a y eoman's job of it too. Still, no hard-on. Super strange.

  Frankie's sexual dysfunctions usually came from the flip-side of a s ofty: premature eruption of of' Mount Vesuvius. Not being able t o a chieve a serviceable, gargantuan erection was something new to him.

  Super strange.

  It wasn't the alcohol either, though he had drunk enough to knock out a b attalion. Shit, Frankie had been blitzed plenty of times. Plenty.

  But his "Throbbing Warhead" had never had any trouble engaging in the past. Th e b ig Fella was usually swollen to the size of a Louisville Slugger b y n ow, splitting the little lady in two nice, even pieces. And it wasn't t he chicks fault either.

  She was a pro in every way, her tongue licking gently at him like a k itten near a saucer of milk. A beautiful thing really. Screw th e c ream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel getting sucked off by a w orking pro was one of his favorite things.

  But suddenly the dog had bitten, the bee had stung, he was feeling sad.

  Check that. He was feeling un horny And why?

  Because he was a basketball fan.

  "Lie down, Frankie. Relax."

  He obeyed, but his mind was elsewhere. He had read in the Internationa l h erald Tribune a couple of days ago about the kidnapping of Michae l s ilverman. Super strange stuff. It had happened in some AIDS clinic o n t he east coast of the USA.

  So then why the hell was Silverman chained to the floor of a Tha i w horehouse?

  Simple, Frankie. You're drunk. Check that: you're shit-faced, yo u t hick-dicked macho hunk. You imagined the whole thing. How long was th e d oor open, Super Stud, two seconds? You barely saw the guy.

  Good point, except for one thing. Frankie never hallucinated.

  Drinking loosened him up. Drinking made him feel good.

  Drinking made him pass out and pee in his pants. Drinking did not , however, cause him to imagine kidnap victims chained to a floor. He ha d t o tell the police, and he had to tell them right away. Could be a r eward in it for him.

  "Whoa, honey, slow down a second," he said.

  The whore lifted her head.

  "Something to please you, Frankie?"

  He stood and grabbed his pants. He zipped slowly, making sure he kep t h is Trouser Snake from running wild and getting caught in the meta l t eeth.

  "Don't take it personal, sweetheart, but I gotta go. Maybe next time."

  "But, Frankie-"

  "Here's fifty bucks. I'll tell boss man you were great.

  Don't worry."

  He winked and then headed out the door.

  Tawnee shrugged and picked up the fifty dollar bill. Poor man, sh e t hought. It was sort of sad. She had seen more than her share of penise s i n her day, but the thing in that guy's pants looked like a baby's p inkie.

  So sad.

  Sara arrived at the family estate a few minutes before eight.

  Cassandra met her at the front door.

  "Hi," Sara said.

  "Hi."

  That was the extent of their conversation.

  They sat on either side of the den and waited in silence. Their eye s n ever met. They seemed to be avoiding each other, like teenagers lef t a lone on a first date, but above all they looked weary.

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, the only noise in the stil l s urroundings. Sara began to tap her leg and sing an old classic fro m t hin Lizzy, but the words died away quickly.

  "Sara?"

  "Yes."

  "I hope Michael is okay."

  Sara nodded, a thin smile on her lips.

  "He is."

  They heard the familiar sound of the Mercedes diesel engine.

  Their father was home. With great effort Sara made her way to her feet.

  Cassandra did likewise. As they headed down the corridor, past portrait s o f ancestors and the fine wooden paneling, John Lowell entered.

  John saw his two daughters immediately and stopped. He did not call ou t t o them or try to back away. He just stood there for a moment, staring , a defeated look on his face.

  Cassandra stepped forward.

  "I told Sara. I'm sorry " John interrupted his daughter with a raise d h and.

  "You did the right thing," he said.

  "what's going on, Dad?" Sara asked.

  "Perhaps we can explain."

  "We?" Cassandra repeated.

  John lowered his head and stepped aside. From behind him Senator Stephe n j enkins entered the room. His appearance had changed radically since th e c ancer Center gala two weeks ago.

  Bradley's father looked drawn. His eyes were unfocused and bewildered.

  The senator tried to smile.

  "Hello, ladies."

  The sisters shared a confused glance.

  "Dad," Sara began, "I don't understand what's going on."

  "I know you don't, honey," John said gently.

  "Maybe we can explain it to you in the study."

  Harvey's eyes were red. He had not been home in five days, and he ha d n ot seen Cassandra since their brief tryst in his office the day Michae l h ad been kidnapped. His sleep came in infrequent periods o f s emiconsciousness at his desk, more like airplane dozing than genuin e r EM sleep. For several minutes at a time he had managed to push Michae l f rom his mind and focus on work. But the minutes never lasted very lon g b efore his attention reverted back to Michael. Still, he felt keyed u p b y new developments. The changes in the SRI formula enhancements, reall y w ere going to achieve the d
esired effect, he was sure of it. He just ha d t o buckle down a little more, push himself a little more.

  As anyone who knew or worked with him could attest, motivation had neve r b een a problem for Harvey. More than anyone, he understood th e r amifications of his work. That knowledge spurred him on when other s a lmost all others would quit.

  The intercom buzzed.

  "Dr. Riker?"

  "Yes?"

  "Mrs. Riker called again. She wanted me to remind you to call her a s s oon as possible. She said it was urgent." Harvey sighed. Urgent. Yeah , right. To be fair, Jennifer probably wanted to know how Sara was doin g a nd if they had learned anything knew about Michael. He really didn't h ave the time to go into all that with her. Besides, thinking about he r s till distracted him, and the last thing he needed was a distraction.

  "Okay, thanks, I'll get back to her."

  "Would you like me to place the call for you?"

  Harvey thought for a moment and decided he might as well get it ove r w ith before Jen became hostile.

  "That would be fine, thanks."

  "I'll connect you."

  A few moments later Harvey heard the phone ringing.

  Chapter 19.

  Lieutenant Max Bernstein sat at his desk and pondered the lates t d evelopments in the Gay Slasher case. Of course, Max never actually sat.

  He stood, paced, squatted, juggled day-old doughnuts (he was trying t o m aster four at the same time), and drove those around him nuts.

  He kept replaying his conversation with Winston O'Connor, the first bi g b reak in days. Clearly the National Institutes of Health had a stron g i nterest in Sidney Pavilion. The question was why.

  O'Connor's explanation that the NIH wanted to keep an eye on it s i nterests rang hollow. Why single out the Sidney Pavilion?

  There had to be a reason.

  But what?

  Okay, forget that for a moment. Move onto the murder of Riccard o m artino. Winston O'Connor claimed that he had nothing to do wit h m artino's death, and Max believed him. In an odd way it solved somethin g t hat had puzzled Max from the moment they found Martino's body.

  The timing.

  Okay, let's reconstruct. Harvey Riker had seen Riccardo Martino alive a f ew minutes before Winston O'Connor knocked him unconscious. Ergo , Martino was murdered after Riker was attacked. In order for that to b e t he case, the killer had to surprise Harvey, go downstairs, kil l m artino, and then make his escape all of which seemed very unlikely. No m atter how cool a customer the Gay Slasher was, chances are he woul d h ave taken off as soon as Harvey stumbled onto the scene, saving Martin o f or another day.