Miracle Cure (Page 65)

“Go on.”

“Did you see NewsFlash last night by any chance?” the voice asked.

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll appreciate how difficult this job is going to be.”

“That’s my problem,” George said. “You just worry about paying me.”

“Understood.”

“When do you want the job done?” George asked.

“Tonight.”

“That doesn’t give me much time.”

“This situation has changed now,” his employer said. “It has to be tonight.”

“Okay, but it’ll cost you.”

“I’ll pay it. I swear.”

George sighed. “So who is tonight’s lucky faggot?”

From the other end of the phone, George heard a throat being cleared.

“Michael Silverman.”

15

DR. John Lowell looked across his desk at the plump man. He tried to mask the naked hatred on his face, but he knew that it was pointless. Reverend Sanders could see his expression of loathing; it did not seem to bother him.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Sanders began. “I appreciate you finding the time in your busy schedule.”

“We only have an hour,” Lowell replied impatiently. “What do you want?”

Sanders stood and strolled about the spacious study. “This is really a beautiful room, John,” he began, his smile locked on autopilot. “Every time I’m in here, I feel so . . . so at home. It’s a wonderful study.”

“Never mind that. My daughter will be home in a little while.”

“So?”

“I don’t want her to see you.”

Sanders reached out and picked up the picture frame on John’s desk. “You have such lovely daughters, John. Gentle, beautiful Sara and the, uh, sex”—he stopped and looked up—“the, uh, sculpted Cassandra. You are a very fortunate man. You see, John, family is what it is all about. Our country was built on the principle of family values. Now that foundation is beginning to crack and crumble. It is our task, dear John, to repair the cracks and make the foundation as strong as ever.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s very simple. I want you to continue to help me in our crusade. I want you to stand up and do what is right.”

“Will you please stop with the mumbo jumbo and get to the point?”

Sanders’ voice remained unruffled, placid. “Tell me, John, why did you refuse to come to last night’s emergency meeting?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, John, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t want this disease cured, do you?”

Sanders gave an amused smile. “Tell me, John, would you have wanted to cure the plagues of Egypt? Would you have tried to help Job, even though God did not want you to? Would you have told Abraham that God did not really want him to sacrifice Isaac?”

“What the hell are you—”

“Would you try to stop God’s work, John? Would you try to join Lucifer in obstructing the Lord’s plans?”

“Get the hell off your high horse—”

“We know that AIDS can be transmitted through bodily fluids,” Sanders interrupted, “yet if you dare suggest mandatory testing of your doctor or your dentist, the liberals go crazy. They scream about constitutional rights. Well, John, what about our constitutional rights? What about our rights to remain healthy? They don’t care about us. Why should we care about them?”

John Lowell just stared for a moment. “You and Markey said they weren’t making any progress.”

“Yes, I know. It was a surprise to us as well, John. Dr. Riker’s reports never showed any hints of what we all heard on your daughter’s television show last night. We were as shocked as you were.”

John rubbed his forehead. Sanders’ calm voice was beginning to unnerve him. “I would have never gone along with . . .”

“With what, John?”

“You know what.”

Again, Sanders smiled. “The fact remains, however, that we still have a job to complete. Now it will be tougher than ever. We need your help, John.”

“You’re insane. My son-in-law is being treated in that clinic, for God’s sake.”

Sanders nodded his head solemnly, his expression suddenly grave. “I’m so sorry for you and your daughter. What an awful way to find out the truth about Michael’s, uh”—again the dramatic pause—“his sexual preference.”

John struggled to keep his temper under wraps. “You saw the report. Michael got the virus from a blood transfusion.”

The smile came back. “Perhaps you are right, John, but it seems awfully suspicious to me. A blood transfusion in the Bahamas? You will have to admit it’s rather hard to swallow—especially in light of the statements made by Michael’s very own father.”

“Stepfather,” John corrected. “An ignorant son of a bitch who Michael hasn’t seen since his childhood.”

“Is that so? How interesting. I wonder why he would lie, then.”

John said nothing for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “You,” he whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“You put him up to it, didn’t you? You paid Johnson off to say that garbage.”

“Me? Why would I do such a thing?”

“To distract the media. To cast a shadow over the clinic’s positive press.”

“Now, hold on a minute, John. It is not very nice to hurl unsubstantiated accusations around like that.”

“Get the hell out of my house.”

“But there is so much more to discuss, John . . .”

“Get out.”

“. . . like your continued participation in our struggle.”

He stood. “Jesus, you are insane. This has gone too far. It has to be stopped now before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Regrettably, John, I fear it will continue.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cassette tape. “This might help to steer you back on the road of the righteous.”

The color drained from Lowell’s face, turning his ruddy complexion into something near chalk. He sat back down. “What’s . . . ?”

“On the tape? A good question, John. You remember our first meeting in Raymond’s office? The one where you said you would do anything to destroy Riker and Grey’s clinic so that the Cancer Center could get the finances for its new wing? Do you remember that meeting?”