Miracle Cure

His smile wavered, and for a brief moment there was a crack in the facade, allowing a quick peek at the cold soul beyond the smile. “Of course not,” he said. “You twist everything around to suit your purposes, and the righteous know that. The righteous will not be swayed off the path of the Lord by your lies. I repeat what I have said all along. I have paid my fair share of taxes. This whole issue is nothing but a play by secularists to ruin my good name.”

Donald Parker finally broke in. “Thank you, Reverend Sanders. Well take a break and be back after this message. Don’t go away.”

“DR. Lowell? May I speak with you for a moment?”

John Lowell looked up, obviously annoyed. “Can’t it wait until after the show, Ray?”

“There’s a commercial on now,” Raymond said. Dr. Raymond Markey worked for the Department of Health and Human Services in Washington. A small man, his arms and legs looked too short for his body. Thick glasses magnified his small dark eyes fivefold, making him look more like a classic movie nerd than a medical doctor. In truth, Markey rarely practiced medicine anymore. His job as assistant secretary of the department threw him more into the political realm than he cared to admit.

With a deep sigh, John Lowell stood and walked out of the room. The two headed down the hallway together. When they were alone, Lowell said, “Okay, what is it?”

Raymond Markey’s giant eyes scanned the hallway like two searchlights across a prison courtyard. “He’s coming to your party tonight.”

Lowell’s face turned red. “What? I don’t want that man in my house. I thought I made that clear.”

“You did.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he whispered. “The timing of this party, everything.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Markey said. “He’ll be here. I thought you should know.”

Lowell cursed silently, his hands clenching into fists. “That son of a bitch is going to destroy us all.”

AS the party got into full swing, the group of men surrounding Cassandra fought for center stage like vain actors. But Cassandra, used to such scenes, couldn’t have cared less. She merely smiled brightly, seductively, nodding now and again but never really listening. Yes, they were all important men. Randall Crane owned a large chunk of several conglomerates. He had been featured on the cover of Fortune magazine looking very distinguished and serious. But he was boring. They were all deadly boring. If these men had not possessed staggering amounts of money, nobody would even pretend to listen to their self-indulgent horse manure.

The crowd of well-dressed patrons buzzed about Sara’s debut on NewsFlash. Cassandra’s eyes swept over the mansion’s large ballroom, recognizing most of the nearly three hundred guests. Hypocrites, she thought. Like they really gave a flying shit about fighting cancer. They were here to be seen, to mingle and impress. If that meant coughing up some money for charity, well, that was the price of admission. Being seen was the thing.

Randall Crane interrupted her thoughts. “Do you know how I arrived here tonight, Cassandra?”

She barely glanced in his direction. “No, Randall. Why don’t you tell me?”

“By private helicopter,” he said proudly. “I just bought the bird. Seats eight. I have my own full-time pilot, copilot, and stewardess.”

“Stewardess?” Cassandra repeated. “On a helicopter?”

Randall Crane nodded. “We traveled from the roof of my high-rise on Forty-seventh Street to here in under an hour.”

“I’m very impressed, Randall.”

The older man beamed. “Do you want to take a ride in it? You won’t believe how fast it goes.”

She had bedded Randall Crane more than three years ago, and he had lasted about as long as a fifteen-year-old boy on his first time out. The man had barely gotten his pants off.

“You should learn to slow down, Randall,” she said with a wicked smile. “Speed is not always a good thing, you know.”

Watching Randall’s face turn red, Cassandra spotted Michael in the back corner, standing in a corner with that nothing doctor friend of his.

Michael looked so damn handsome in his tux, the only man at the party who would dare to wear a purple flowered bowtie and matching cumberbund rather than the standard black. But that was Michael. He was always a little off center. Cassandra had not seen him for nearly six months, but he still looked fantastic.

It was strange, really. Over the years Cassandra had stolen all of Sara’s boyfriends, starting with her first high school beau, Eddie Myles. Cassandra had orchestrated the seduction so that Sara would be sure to walk in on them.

Which she did.

Sara’s eyes widened when she saw her boyfriend’s pants lowered to his ankles, Cassandra kneeling in front of him. Her face had crumbled into anguish. But Eddie was only the first. It became a game to Cassandra. A new challenge. Every time Sara risked trusting someone, her sister would pounce on him. With each seduction Sara’s wounds bled anew. Insecurity began to nestle into her psyche. Sara became more self-conscious about her health problems. Her confidence withered away. Sarcasm became her defense. Cassandra watched her sister distance herself from the outside world. She dedicated herself to her studies, staying alone in her room, blasting that awful heavy metal music. Eventually, there were no boys left for Cassandra to chase away.

But Sara had been playing possum. Somehow the sly bitch had landed the best of men.

Michael, the bastard. The gorgeous, wonderful bastard.

Cassandra stepped forward. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.”

The men parted to allow her to pass. Cassandra could not take her eyes off Michael. Six months had passed since they had last seen each other. And a lot of things might have changed in six months.

Cassandra moved toward Michael.

SITTING in the back of a studio limousine, Sara could not keep still. She tried to unwind from the excitement of the show, but the constant flow of adrenaline would not allow it. She rocked back and forth in the plush leather seat, her mind whirling with anticipation. She had moved from Blue Oyster Cult into the more contemporary sounds of Depeche Mode, but she still wasn’t slowing down. Midway through “Blasphemous Rumors,” the limousine driver raised the soundproof window between them.

Good.

Soon she would see Michael. Corny to say, but the best part of days like these was reliving each detail with her husband. Wincing, Sara snapped off her brace and rubbed her foot. Leg braces had improved dramatically over the years, from the days when she wore a heavy metal one that gripped like a power-vise to the modern fiberglass kind that felt more snug than compressing. Still, the brace was cumbersome and her leg throbbed painfully when she wore it a long time. She massaged her foot and lower leg with knowing hands. The blood began to circulate again.