Miracle Cure
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 had not seen Cassandra since their brief tryst in his office the day Michael had been kidnapped. His sleep came in infrequent periods of semiconsciousness at his desk, more like airplane dozing than genuine REM sleep. For several minutes at a time he had managed to push Michael from his mind and focus on work. But the minutes never lasted very long before his attention reverted back to Michael. Still, he felt keyed up by new developments. The changes in the SR1 formula—enhancements, really—were going to achieve the desired effect; he was sure of it. He just had to buckle down a little more, push himself a little more.
As anyone who knew or worked with him could attest, motivation had never been a problem for Harvey. More than anyone, he understood the ramifications of his work. That knowledge spurred him on when others—almost all others—would quit.
The intercom buzzed. “Dr. Riker?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Riker called again. She wanted me to remind you to call her as soon as possible. She said it was urgent.”
Harvey sighed. Urgent. Yeah, right. To be fair, Jennifer probably wanted to know how Sara was doing and if they had learned anything new about Michael. He really didn’t have the time to go into all that with her. Besides, thinking about her still 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 over with before Jen became hostile. “That would be fine, thanks.”
“I’ll connect you.”
A few moments later Harvey heard the phone ringing.
19
LIEUTENANT Max Bernstein sat at his desk and pondered the latest developments in the Gay Slasher case. Of course, Max never actually sat. He stood, paced, squatted, juggled day-old doughnuts (he was trying to master four at the same time), and drove those around him nuts.
He kept replaying his conversation with Winston O’Connor, the first big break in days. Clearly the National Institutes of Health had a strong interest in Sidney Pavilion. The question was why. O’Connor’s explanation that the NIH wanted to keep an eye on its interests rang hollow. Why single out the Sidney Pavilion? There had to be a reason.
But what?
Okay, forget that for a moment. Move on to the murder of Riccardo Martino. Winston O’Connor claimed that he had nothing to do with Martino’s death, and Max believed him. In an odd way it solved something that 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 few minutes before Winston O’Connor knocked him unconscious. Ergo, Martino was murdered after Riker was attacked. In order for that to be the case, the killer had to surprise Harvey, go downstairs, kill Martino, and then make his escape—all of which seemed very unlikely. No matter how cool a customer the Gay Slasher was, chances were he would have taken off as soon as Harvey stumbled onto the scene, saving Martino for another day.
So what was the explanation?
Simple. The person who killed Martino was not the same person who attacked Dr. Riker.
Well, if Winston O’Connor did not kill Martino, who did?
The Gay Slasher.
Then why didn’t the Slasher stab him like the others?
Hmmm. Good question.
Like that one, Max? I got a million more for you. Is the person who hired the Gay Slasher targeting the cured patients like Trian, Whitherson, and Martino? Or is he (or she—let’s not be sexist) after the secret patients like Jenkins and Michael? Or both? And what about the order of the deaths of the cured patients—the three early patients dead, the three later patients alive? Is there any significance in that or is it just a faulty wire in the brain that keeps bringing you back to that seemingly irrelevant point?
And the bigger question, which Max doodled on the top of his desk repeatedly:
Who benefits from the murders?
Good question. Crucial.
The phone on his desk rang. Max dropped the doughnuts onto the floor. He reached for the receiver without bothering to pick them up.
“Bernstein here.”
“Good,” Sergeant Willie Monticelli said, “you’re still there. You ain’t gonna believe this.”
The tone of Willie’s voice told Max that this was no routine call. “Where are you?”
“Downstairs. I got a police station in Bangkok on the phone. A guy named Colonel something. I can’t pronounce it.”
Bangkok! Max sat down. “What does he want?”
“I still have him on the line, Twitch. I want you to hear this for yourself.”
“What is it?”
“I’d rather let him tell you himself.”
“Patch him through.”
“Just hold on. Damn, which button do I push?”
“The yellow one.”
“Oh, right. Here goes.”
Click. Static. Then: “Hello.”
“Hello, Colonel,” Max said, speaking slowly. “My name is Lieutenant Max Bernstein. I am with the New York Police Department. With whom am I speaking?”
“Colonel Thaakavechikan. Bangkok Special Forces.”
“Colonel Thaka—”
“Colonel will suffice, Lieutenant. I went to school in California, so I know that Thai names are difficult for Americans.”
“Thank you, Colonel. You have some information for us?”
“I believe so. I understand that you are in charge of the Gay Slasher homicides and the disappearance of Michael Silverman.”
“Yes.”
“Well, something has come to our attention which might be of interest to you. Have you ever heard of George Camron?”
“No.”
“He is a professional hit man who lives in Bangkok, though he travels frequently. He is quite good and very deadly. We estimate that he has killed over two hundred people in the past decade.”
“Jesus.”
“When Camron is in Bangkok, he works out of a bar called the Eager Beaver on Patpong Street. He has been seen there quite frequently in recent days.”
“Just recent days?”
“Yes. According to our sources, George Camron arrived in Bangkok within the week.”