Miracle Cure

“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 you?”

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 hands, that Cassandra was just trying to bait her. But Sara still felt a flush of anger and jealousy that colored her cheeks red.

Lord knew 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 eight hundred 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, hon? I bet some of his best friends are Jewish.”

Sara nodded. “He probably wants to convert.”

“I’ll perform the bris.”

Michael hugged Sara tightly. “You all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” 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.”