Review
------
Praise for Miracle Cure
“Frightening.”—Chicago Tribune
“Coben adroitly applies the fundamental rules of thrillerdom
(offer a raft of potential villains; keep the action moving at
breakneck speed) in this highly entertaining novel...a
page-turner!”—Publishers Weekly
More Praise for Harlan Coben
“Coben is one of the best authors around at writing page-turning
suspense…He has a knack for hooking readers right away and
holding their interest as they zoom through his plots.”—Chicago
Sun-Times
“Nobody writes them better than Coben.”—Associated Press
“What Coben does best is take readers into his characters’ hearts
and minds.”—USA Today
“Every time you think Harlan Coben couldn’t get any better at
uncoiling a whipsnake of a page-turner, he comes along with a new
novel that somehow surpasses its predecessor.”—The San Francisco
Chronicle
“Coben is the undisputed modern master of the suburban
thriller.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer
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About the Author
----------------
With more than seventy million books in print worldwide,
Harlan Coben is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of
thirty novels, including the Myron Bolitar series and a series
ed at young adults featuring Myron's newphew, Mickey Bolitar.
His books are published in forty-three languages around the globe
and have been number one bestsellers in more than a dozen
countries. The winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards,
he lives in New Jersey.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
EPILOGUE
Teaser chapter
A Note from the Author
Okay, if this is the first book of mine you’re going to try, stop
now. Return it. Grab another. It’s okay. I’ll wait.
If you’re still here, please know that I haven’t read Miracle
Cure in at least twenty years. It is my second published novel,
one I wrote in my early twenties when I was just a naive lad
working in the travel industry and wondering if I should follow
my her and brother go to (shudder) law school.
I’m hard on it, but aren’t we all hard on our early stuff?
Remember that essay you wrote when you were in school, the one
that you got an A plus on, the one your teacher called
“inspired”—and one day you’re going through your drawer and you
find it and you read it and your heart sinks and you say, “Man,
what was I thinking?”
That’s how it is with early novels sometimes. This one is a bit
preachy in spots and sometimes dated (though in truth, I wish the
medical stuff was more dated, but that’s another matter). You
might think I based part of this on a “real-life” situation. I
didn’t. This book predates that event. I won’t say more because
it could be a spoiler.
Finally, flawed and all, I love this book. There are an energy
and risk-taking in Miracle Cure that I wonder if I still have.
I’m not this guy anymore, but that’s okay. None of us is stagnant
with our passion and our work. That’s a good thing.
Enjoy
PRAISE FOR HARLAN COBEN AND HIS BESTSELLING NOVELS
“Coben again keeps the reader off-balance with innovative story
lines and diabolical bad guys.”
—People
“More twists and turns than an amusement park ride.”
—USA Today
“Every time you think Harlan Coben couldn’t get any better at
uncoiling a whip snake of a page-turner, he comes along with a
new novel that somehow surpasses its predecessor.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“An exhilarating, bang-up Porsche Turbo of a novel that you
absolutely will not put down.”
—Dennis Lehane
“Coben twists story lines into psychological thrill rides. The
pages flip so fast, it’s a wonder you don’t develop paper cuts.”
—The Orlando Sentinel
“Truly surprising.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“The action unfolds with the intensity of TV’s 24. . . . Nobody
writes them better than Coben.”
—The Associated Press
“Lively, fast-moving entertainment, jam-packed with the bizarre
plot twists that are his stock-in-trade.”
—The Washington Post
“Coben is one of the best authors around at writing page-turning
suspense.... He has a knack for hooking readers right away and
holding their interest as they zoom through his plots.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Most thriller authors only wish they could write like Coben. The
guy has a way of grabbing you from the first paragraph and never
turning you loose till the ashes have settled. Coben takes
chances; he pulls no punches.”
—The Madison County Herald (MS)
“Harlan Coben thrillers are precision-tooled pageturners. If
you’re looking for immediate immersion in a book that will not
let go until it’s done, then Coben’s your man.”
—London Lite
ALSO BY HARLAN COBEN
Play Dead
Deal Breaker
Drop
Fade Away
Back Spin
One False Move
The Final Detail
Darkest Fear
Tell No One
Gone for Good
No Second Chance
Just One Look
The Innocent
Promise Me
The Woods
Hold Tight
Long Lost
Caught
Live Wire
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada
Inc.)
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Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
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Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a
division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in an
SPI Books edition. Published by arrangement with the author.
First Signet Printing, October 2011
Copyright © Harlan Coben, 1991, 1992
ISBN: 9781101544440
Excerpt from Live Wire copyright © Harlan Coben, 2011
All rights reserved
The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery
Writers of America, Inc.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
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content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the
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publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only
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encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your
support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Corky,
the best mommy in the world
PROLOGUE
FRIDAY, AUGUST 30
D R. Bruce Grey tried not to walk too fast. He slowed his pace,
fighting off the temptation to sprint across the soiled floor of
Kennedy Airport’s International Arrivals Building, past the
customs officials, and out into the humid night air. His eyes
shifted from side to side. Every few steps he would feign a
soreness in his neck to give himself the rtunity to glance
behind him and make sure he was not being followed.
Stop it! Bruce told himself. Stop lurking around like a poor
man’s James Bond. You’re shaking like a malaria patient, for
chrissake. You couldn’t look more conspicuous if you wore a sign.
He strolled past the luggage carousel, nodding politely at the
little old lady who had sat next to him on the flight. The old
woman had not shut her mouth during the entire trip, gabbing on
about her family, her love of flying, her last trip overseas. She
was sweet enough, just somebody’s grandmother, but Bruce still
closed his eyes and pretended to be a in order to get a
little peace and quiet. But, of course, had not come to
him. It would not come for some time yet.
But maybe she wasn’t just some sweet, little old lady, Brucie
boy. Maybe she was following you . . .
He dismissed the voice with a nervous shake of the head. This
whole thing was turning his brain into sewer sludge. First, he
was sure that the bearded man on the plane had been following
him. Then it was the big guy with the slicked-back hair and
Armani suit at the telephone booth. And don’t forget the pretty
blonde by the terminal exit. She had been following him too.
Now it was a little old lady.
Get a grip on yourself, Brucie. Paranoia is not what we need
right now. Clear thinking, old pal—that’s what we’re looking for.
Bruce moved past the luggage carousel and over to the customs
official.
“Passport, please.”
Bruce handed the man his passport.
“No luggage, sir?”
He shook his head. “Only this carry-on.”
The customs officer glanced at the passport and then at Bruce.
“You look quite different from your photograph.”
Bruce tried to force a tired smile to his lips but it would not
hold. The humidity was almost unbearable. His dress shirt was
pasted against his skin, his tie loosened to the point of being
nearly untied. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. “I . .
. I’ve gone through a few changes.”
“A few? You’re a dark-haired man with a beard in this picture.”
“I know—”
“Now you’re a clean-shaven blond.”
“Like I said, I went through a few changes.” Luckily, you can’t
tell eye color from a passport photo or you would want to know
why I changed my eyes from brown to blue.
The customs official did not appear convinced. “Were you
traveling on business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure.”
“You always pack this lightly?”
Bruce swallowed and managed a shrug. “I hate waiting for checked
luggage.”
The customs official swung his line of vision from the passport
photograph to Bruce’s face and then back again. “Would you open
your bag, please?”
Bruce could barely keep his hands steady enough to set the
combination. It took him three tries before it finally snapped
open. “There you go.”
The customs official’s eyes narrowed into thin slits as he
rummaged through the belongings. “What are these?” he asked.
Bruce closed his eyes, his breath coming in short ps. “Some
files.”
“I can see that,” the official replied. “What are they for?”
“I’m a doctor,” Bruce explained, his voice cracking. “I wanted to
review some of my patients’ charts while I was away.”
“Do you always do that when you’re on vacation?”
“Not always.”
“What type of doctor are you?”
“An internist at Columbia Presbyterian,” Bruce replied, telling a
half-truth. He decided to leave out the fact that he was also an
expert in public and epidemiology.
“I see,” the official replied. “I wish my doctor was that
dedicated.”
Again Bruce tried to smile. Again it was a failed attempt.
“And this sealed envelope?”
Bruce felt his whole body quake. “Excuse me?”
“What is in this manila envelope?”
He willed a casual look on his face. “Oh, that’s just some
medical information I’m sending to a colleague,” he managed.
The customs official’s eyes locked onto Bruce’s blood ones
for a few long moments. “I see,” he said, slowly putting the
envelope back in the bag. When the customs official finished
going through the rest of the carry-on, he signed Bruce’s customs
declaration and handed him back his passport. “Give the card to
the woman on your way out.”
Bruce reached for the bag. “Thank you.”
“And, Doctor?”
Bruce looked up.
“You might want to visit one of your colleagues,” the customs
official said. “If you don’t mind a layman giving medical
opinions, you look awful.”
“I’ll do that.”
Bruce lifted the bag and glanced behind him. The little old lady
was still waiting for her luggage. The man with the beard and the
pretty blonde were nowhere in . The big guy in the Armani
suit was still talking on the phone.
Bruce moved away from the customs desk. His right hand gripped
his bag with excessive vigor; his left hand rubbed his face. He
handed the customs declaration to the woman and walked through
the sliding glass doors into the waiting area. A sea of anxious
faces greeted him. People stood on their toes, peering out from
all points with each swish of the glass doors before lowering
their heads in disappointment when an unfamiliar face approached
the threshold.
Bruce moved steadily past the waiting friends and relatives, past
the bored limousine drivers with name signs held up against their
chests. He made his way to the Japan Airlines ticket counter on
the right.
“Is there a mailbox near here?” he asked.
“To your right,” the woman replied. “By the Air France desk.”
“Thank you.”
He walked by a garbage can and casually dropped his torn-up
boarding pass into it. He had considered himself very clever to
book the flight under an assumed name—very clever, that was,
until he got to the airport and was informed that you could not
have an international ticket issued under a different name from
the one on your passport.
Whoops.
Luckily, there had been plenty of space on the flight. Even
though he had to purchase another ticket for himself, reserving
one under an alias had not been such a dumb idea. Before his
actual departure date, no one could have found out what flight he
was booked on because his name was not in the computer. Pure
genius on his part.
Yessiree, Brucie. You are a regular genius.
Yeah, right. Genius. Bullshit.
He located the mail slot near the Air France desk. A few
passengers spoke to the airline representative. None of them paid
him the slightest attention. His eyes quickly checked the room.
The old lady, the bearded man, and the pretty blonde had either
left or were still going through customs. The only “” he could
still see was the big guy in the Armani suit, who now moved
hurriedly through the sliding glass doors and out of the
terminal.
Bruce let loose a sigh of . No one was looking at him now.
He turned his attention back to the mail slot. His hand reached
into his bag and quickly slipped the sealed manila envelope down
the chute. His insurance policy was safely on its way.
Now what?
He certainly could not go home. If anyone was searching for him,
his apartment on the Upper West Side would be the first place
they would look. The clinic was no good at this hour of the
night, either. Someone could nab him there just as easily.
Look, I’m not very good at this. I’m just your average
run-of-the-mill doctor who went to college, went to medical
school, got married, had a kid, finished residency, got divorced,
lost custody of the kid, and now works too hard. I’m not up to
playing I .
But what other choice did he have? He could go to the , but
who would believe him? He had no real evidence yet. Hell, he
wasn’t even sure what was going on himself. What could he tell
the ?
Try this on for size, Brucie: “Help! Protect me! Two people have
already been murdered and countless others may join
them—including me!”
Maybe true. Maybe not. Question: what did he really know for
sure? Answer: not a hell of lot. More like nothing. By going to
the , Bruce knew he would do little more than destroy the
clinic and all the important work they had accomplished there. He
had dedicated the last three years to that research and he was
not about to give those damn bigots the weapon they needed to
kill the project. No, he would have to handle it a different way.
But how?
He checked once more to make sure he was not being followed. All
his enemy spies were gone now. That was good. That was a nice bit
of . He hailed a yellow taxi and jumped into the backseat.
“Where to?”
Bruce thought for a moment, mulling over every thriller he had
ever read. Where would George Smiley go, or better still, Travis
McGee or Spenser? “The Plaza, please.”
The taxi pulled away. Bruce watched out the back window. No cars
seemed to be following as the taxi began its journey down the Van
Wyck Expressway toward Manhattan. Bruce settled back, letting his
head rest against the seat. He tried to breathe deeply and relax,
but he still found himself trembling in fear.
Think, goddamn it. This is no time to catnap.
First, he needed a new alias. His eyes moved left and right,
finally resting on the taxi driver’s name on the displayed
license. Benjamin Johnson. Bruce turned the name around. John
Benson. That would be his name until tomorrow. John Benson. Just
until tomorrow. Now, if he could just stay alive until then . . .
He dared not think that far ahead.
Everyone at the clinic thought he was still on vacation in
Cancún, Mexico. No one—absolutely no one—knew the whole vacation
idea was merely a diversion. Bruce had played the role of happy
traveler to the utmost. He had bought beachwear, flown down to
Cancún last Friday, checked into the Cancún Oasis Hotel, prepaid
for the week, and told the concierge that he would be renting a
boat and could not be reached. Then he shaved his beard, cut and
bleached his hair, and put on bluetinted contact lenses. Even
Bruce had trouble recognizing the image in the mirror. He
returned to the airport, left Mexico, checked in at his true
destination under the name Rex Veneto, and began to investigate
his horrible suspicions.
The truth, however, appeared to be more shocking than he had
imagined.
The taxi slowed now in front of the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue.
The lights of Central Park twinkled from across the street and to
the north. Bruce paid the driver, tipping him no more or less
than the proper a, and strolled into the lush lobby of the
hotel. Despite his designer suit, he felt conspicuously sloppy.
His jacket was heavily creased, his pants completely d. He
looked like something left in the bottom of a laundry hamper for
a week—hardly what his mother would have called presentable.
He began to walk toward the reception desk when something he
barely spotted out of the corner of his eye made him stop.
It’s just your imagination, Bruce. It’s not the same guy. It
can’t be.
Bruce felt his pulse quicken. He spun around, but the big guy in
the Armani suit was nowhere in . Had he really seen the same
man? Probably not, but there was no reason to take chances. He
left the hotel by the back entrance and walked toward the subway.
He purchased a token, took the 1 train down to Fourteenth Street,
switched to the A train to Forty-second Street, cut cross town on
the 7 train, jumping off the car seconds before the doors closed
at Third Avenue. He changed trains haphazardly for another half
an hour, jumping on or off at the last possible second each time,
before ending up on Fifty-sixth Street and Eighth Avenue. Then
“John Benson” walked a few blocks and checked into the Days Inn,
a hotel where Dr. Bruce Grey had never stayed.
When he got up to his room on the eleventh floor, he locked the
door and slid the chain into place.
Now what?
A phone call was risky, but Bruce decided to take the chance. He
would speak to Harvey for only a few moments, then hang up. He
picked up the phone and dialed his partner’s home phone. Harvey
answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Harvey, it’s me.”
“Bruce?” Harvey sounded surprised. “How’s everything in Cancún?”
Bruce ignored the question. “I need to speak to you.”
“Christ, you sound awful. What’s wrong?”
Bruce closed his eyes. “Not over the phone.”
“What are you talking about?” Harvey asked. “Are you still—?”
“Not over the phone,” he repeated. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? What the hell is going—?”
“Don’t ask me any more questions. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning
at six thirty.”
“Where?”
“At the clinic.”
“Jesus, are you in danger? Is this about the murders?”
“I can’t talk anymo—”
Click.
Bruce froze. There was a noise at his door.
“Bruce?” Harvey cried. “What is it? What’s going on?”
Bruce’s heart began to race. His eyes never left the door.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’ll explain everything then.”
“But—”
He gently replaced the receiver, cutting Harvey off.
I’m not up for this. Oh, please, God, let my mind be playing
tricks on me. I’m not up for this. I’m really not up for any of
this....
There was no other sound, and for a brief moment Bruce wondered
if his overactive brain cells had indeed imagined the whole
thing. Maybe there had been no sound at all. And if there had
been a noise, what was so strange about that? He was staying in a
New York hotel, for chrissake, not a soundproof studio. Maybe it
was just a maid. Maybe it was just a bellhop.
Maybe it was just a big guy with slicked-back hair and a
custom-made, silk Armani suit.
Bruce crept toward the door. The right leg slid forward; then the
left tagged along. He had never been much of an athlete, had
never been the most coordinated guy in the world. Right now, it
looked like he was doing some kind of spastic fox-trot.
Click.
His heart slammed into his throat. His legs went weak. There was
no mistaking where the sound had come from this time.
His door.
He stood frozen. His breathing reverberated in his ears so damn
loudly that he was sure everyone on the floor could hear it.
Click.
A short, quick click. Not a fumbling sound, but a very precise
click.
Run, Bruce. Run and hide.
But where? He was in a small room on the eleventh floor of a
hotel. Where the hell was he supposed to run and hide? He took
another step toward the door.
I can open it quickly, scream my brains out, and run down the
hall like an escaped psych patient. I could— The knock came so
suddenly that Bruce nearly screamed. “Who is it?” he practically
shouted.
“Towels,” a man’s voice said.
Bruce moved closer to the door. Towels, my ass. “Don’t need any,”
he called out without opening the door.
Pause. “Okay. Good night, sir.”
He could hear Mr. Towel’s footsteps move away from his door.
Bruce pressed his back against the wall and continued to make his
way to the door. His whole body shook. Despite the room’s
powerful air-conditioning, sweat drenched his clothing and matted
his hair down against his forehead.
Now what?
The peephole, Mr. James Friggin’ Bond. Look through the peephole.
Bruce obeyed the voice within his head. He slowly turned and put
his eye against the peephole. Nothing. Nada, as the Mexicans say.
There was no one there, not a damn thing. He tried to look to his
left and then his right—
And that was when the door flew open.
The chain broke as though it were a thread. The metal knob
slammed against the point of Bruce’s hip. Pain through the
whole area. Instinctively he tried to cover his hip with his
hand. That proved to be a mistake. From behind the door a large
fist came flying toward Bruce’s face. He tried to duck, but his
reflexes were too slow. The knuckles landed with a horrid thud
against the bridge of Bruce’s nose, crushing the s and
cartilage. Blood flowed quickly from his nostrils.
Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet God . . .
Bruce stumbled back, reaching for his nose. The big guy in the
Armani suit stepped into the room and closed the door. He moved
with a speed and grace that defied his great bulk.
“Please—” Bruce managed before a powerful hand the size of a
boxer’s glove clamped over his mouth, silencing him. The hand
carelessly knocked against the flattened nostrils, pushing them
upward and sending hot surges of pain through his face.
The man smiled and nodded politely as if they had just been
introduced at a cocktail party. Then he lifted his foot and threw
a kick with expert precision. The blow shattered Bruce’s kneecap.
Bruce heard the sharp cracking noise as the below the knee
snapped. His scream was muffled by the man’s hand tightening
against his mouth. Then the giant hand pulled back just slightly
before slamming up into Bruce’s jaw, fracturing another and
cracking several teeth. Gripping the broken jaw with his fingers,
the man reached into Bruce’s mouth and pulled down hard. The pain
was enormous, overwhelming. Bruce could feel the tendons in his
mouth ripping away.
Oh, God, please . . .
The big man in the Armani suit let Bruce slide to the floor like
a sack of potatoes. Bruce’s head swam. He watched through a murky
haze as the big man examined a bloodstain on his suit. The man
seemed annoyed by the stain, upset that it would not come out at
the dry cleaner. With a shake of his head, the man moved toward
the window and pulled back the curtain.
“You picked a nice, high floor,” he said casually. “That will
make things easier.”
The big man turned away from the window. He strolled back toward
where Bruce lay writhing. He bent down, took a solid hold on
Bruce’s foot and gently lifted Bruce’s shattered leg into the
air. The agony was unbearable. Jolts of pain wracked his body
with each slight movement of the broken limb.
Please, God, please let me pass out . . .
Suddenly Bruce realized what the man was about to do. He wanted
to ask him what he wanted, wanted to offer the man everything he
had, wanted to beg the man for mercy, but his damaged mouth could
produce only a gurgling noise. Bruce could only look up
hopelessly with pleading, terror-filled eyes. Blood streamed down
his face and onto his neck and chest.
Through a cloud of pain Bruce saw the look in the man’s eyes. It
was not a wild-eyed, crazed look; not a hateful, bloodthirsty
look; not the stare of a psychotic killer. The man was calm.
Busy. A man performing a tedious task. Detached. Unemotional.
This is nothing to this guy, Bruce thought. Another day at the
office.
The man reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a pen and a
piece of paper on the floor. Then he gripped Bruce’s foot, one
hand on the heel, the other on the toes. Bruce bucked in
uncontrollable agony. The man’s muscles flexed before he finally
spoke.
“I’m going to twist your foot all the way around,” the big man
said, “until your toes are pointed toward your back and that
broken rips through the skin.” He paused, gave a distracted
smile, and repositioned his fingers in order to get a better
grip.
“I’ll let go when you finish writing your suicide note, okay?”
Bruce made the note brief.
1
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 14
SARA Lowell glanced at her wristwatch. In twenty minutes she
would make her national television debut in front of thirty
million people. An hour later her future would be decided.
Twenty minutes.
She swallowed, stood slowly, and readjusted her leg brace. Her
chest hitched with each breath. She had to move around, had to do
something before she went nuts. The metal of the brace rubbed
against her, chafing the skin. After all these years Sara still
could not get used to the clumsy artificial constraint. The limp,
yes. The limp had been with her for as long as she could
remember. It felt almost natural to her. But the bulky brace was
still something she wanted to toss in a river.
She took a deep breath, willed herself to relax, and then checked
her makeup in the mirror. Her face looked somewhat pale, but that
was nothing new. Like the limp, she was used to that. Her honey
blond hair was swept back from her beautiful, delicate features
and large doll-like green eyes. Her mouth was wide, her lips
and full to the point where they looked almost swollen.
She took off her wire-rimmed spectacles and cleaned the lenses.
One of the producers walked over to her.
“Ready, Sara?” he asked.
“Whenever you are,” she said with a weak smile.
“Good. You’re on with Donald in fifteen minutes.”
Sara looked at her costar, Donald Parker. At sixty he was double
her age and a billion times more experienced. He had been on
NewsFlash since the early years, before the fantastic Nielsen
ratings and a market share that no news show had ever seen before
or since. Simply put, Donald Parker was a legend in television
journalism.
What the hell do I think I’m doing? I’m not ready for something
like this.
Sara nervously scanned her material for the millionth time. The
words began to blur. Once again she wondered how she had gotten
this far so fast. Her mind flashed through her college years, her
column in the New York Herald, her work on cable television, her
debates on public TV. With each step up the ladder, Sara had
questioned her ability to climb any higher. She had been enraged
by the jealous chatter of her colleagues, the cruel voices that
whispered, “I wish my relatives were famous . . . Who did she
with? . . . It’s that damn limp.”
But no, the truth of the matter was much more simple: the public
adored her. Even when she got rough or sarcastic with a guest,
the audience could not get enough of her. True, her her was
the former surgeon general and her husband was a basketball star,
and maybe her childhood pain and her physical beauty had also
helped her along the way. But Sara remembered what her first boss
had told her:
“No one can survive in this business on looks alone. If anything
they’re a drawback. People will have a preconceived notion that
because you’re a beautiful blonde you can’t be too bright. I know
it’s unfair, Sara, but that’s the way it is. You can’t just be as
good as the competition—you have to be better. Otherwise they’re
going to label you an airhead. You’ll get blown off the stage if
you’re not the brightest person out there.”
Sara repeated the words like some battle cry, but her confidence
refused to leave the trenches. Her debut tonight featured a
report on the financial improprieties of Reverend Ernest Sanders,
the televangelist, founder of the Holy Crusade—a big, slippery
(read: slimy) fish. In fact, the Reverend Sanders had agreed to
appear for a live interview after the report was aired to answer
the charges—on the condition, of course, that NewsFlash display
his 800 number on the screen. Sara had tried to make her story as
evenhanded as possible. She merely stated facts, with a minimum
of innuendo and conclusions. But deep inside Sara knew the truth
about the Reverend Ernest Sanders. There was just no avoiding it.
The man was pure scum.
The studio bustled with activity. Technicians read meters and
adjusted lights. Cameramen swung their lenses into place. The
teleprompter was being tested, no more than three words to a line
so that the audience at home would not see the anchor’s eyes
shifting. Directors, producers, engineers, and gofers scrambled
back and forth across a set that looked like a large family room
with no ceiling and only one wall, as though some giant had
ripped apart the outside so he could peer in. A man Sara did not
recognize rushed toward her.
“Here you go,” he said. The man handed her several sheets of
paper.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Papers.”
“No, I mean what are they for?”
He shrugged. “To shuffle.”
“Shuffle?”
“Yeah, you know, like when you break for a commercial and the
camera pulls away. You shuffle them.”
“I do?”
“Makes you look important,” he assured her before rushing off.
She shook her head. Alas, so much to learn.
Without conscious thought, Sara began to sing quietly. She
usually restricted her singing to the shower or the car,
preferably accompanied by a very loud radio, but occasionally,
when she was nervous, she began to sing in public. Loudly.
When she got to the chorus of “Tattoo Vampire” (“Vampire photo
suckin’ the skin”), her voice rose and she started playing the
air guitar. Really into it now. Getting down.
A moment later she realized that people were staring at her.
She lowered her hands back to her sides, dropping her well-tuned
air guitar into oblivion. The song faded from her lips. She
smiled, shrugged. “Uh—sorry.”
The crew returned to work without so much as a second glance. Air
guitar gone, Sara tried to think about something both distracting
and comforting.
Michael immediately came to mind. She wondered what Michael was
doing right now. He was probably jogging home from basketball
practice. She pictured all six feet five of him opening the door,
a white towel draped around his neck, sweat bleeding through his
gray practice jersey. He always wore the craziest shorts—loud
orange or yellow or pink Hawaiian ones that came down to his
knees, or some whacko-designed jams. Without breaking stride, he
would jog past the expensive piano and into the den. He would
turn on a little Bach, veer toward the kitchen, pour himself a
glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then drink half of it
in one gulp. Then he would collapse into the reclining chair and
let the chamber music sweep him away.
Michael.
Another tap on her shoulder. “Telephone call.” The same man who
had handed her the sheets of paper handed her a portable
telephone.
She took the phone. “Hello?”
“Did you start singing yet?”
She broke into a smile. It was Michael.
“Blue Oyster Cult?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Let me guess.” Michael thought a moment. “ ‘Don’t Fear the
Reaper’?”
“No, ‘Tattoo Vampire.’ ”
“God, how awful. So what are you up to now?”
Sara closed her eyes. She could feel herself beginning to relax.
“Not much. I’m just hanging around the set, waiting to go on.”
“Play any air guitar?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I’m a professional journalist, for
God’s sake.”
“Uh-huh. So how nervous are you?”
“I feel pretty calm actually,” she replied.
“Liar.”
“All right, I’m ed out of my mind. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he replied. “But remember one thing.”
“What?”
“You’re always ed before you go on the air. The more ed
you are, the more you kick ass.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” he said. “This poor guy will never know what hit
him.”
“Really?” she asked, her face beginning to beam.
“Yeah, really,” he said. “Now let me ask you a quick question: do
we have to go to your her’s gala tonight?”
“Let me give you a quick answer: yes.”
“Black tie?” Michael asked.
“Another yes.”
“These big stuffy affairs can be so boring.”
“Tell me about it.”
He paused. “Can I at least have my way with you during the
party?”
“Who knows?” Sara answered. “You may get lucky.” She cradled the
phone between her neck and shoulder for a moment. “Is Harvey
coming to the party tonight?”
“I’m going to pick him up on my way.”
“Good. I know he doesn’t get along with my her—”
“You mean your her doesn’t get along with him,” Michael
corrected.
“Whatever. Will you talk to him tonight?”
“About what?”
“Don’t play games with me, Michael,” she said. “I’m worried about
your .”
“Listen, with Bruce’s death and all the problems at the clinic,
Harv has enough on his mind right now. I don’t want to bother
him.”
“Has he spoken to you yet about Bruce’s suicide?” Sara asked.
“Not a word,” Michael said. “To be honest, I’m kind of worried
about him. He never leaves the lab anymore. He works all day and
night.”
“Harvey has always been that way.”
“I know, but it’s different this time.”
“Give him a little more time, Michael. Bruce has been dead only
two weeks.”
“It’s more than just Bruce.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with the clinic, I guess.”
“Michael, please talk to him about your stomach.”
“Sara . . .”
“Talk to him tonight . . . for me.”
“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly.
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise. And, Sara?”
“What is it?”
“Kick some Southern-fried reverend ass.”
“I love you, Michael.”
“I love you too.”
Sara felt a tap on her shoulder. “Ten minutes.”
“I have to go,” she said.
“Until tonight, then,” he said. “When I have my way with a famous
TV star in her childhood bedroom.”
“Dream on.”
A sharp pain ripped across Michael Silverman’s abdomen again as
he replaced the receiver. He bent over, his hand clutched under
his rib cage, his face scrunched into a grimace. His stomach had
been bothering him on and off for weeks now. At first he had
thought it was just a flu, but now he was not so sure. The ache
was becoming unbearable. Even the thought of food now made his
stomach perform backflips.
Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony drifted across the room like a
welcome breeze. Michael closed his eyes, allowing the melody to
work like a gentle masseur against his aching muscles. His
teammates gave him unlimited shit about his musical taste. Reece
Porter, the black power forward who cocaptained the New York
Knicks with Michael, was always goofing on him.
“How can you listen to this shit, Mikey?” he would ask. “There’s
no beat, no rhythm.”
“I realize that the musical ear of a Chopin does not compare with
that of MC Hammer,” Michael would reply, “but try to be
open-minded. Just listen, Reece. Let the notes flow over you.”
Reece paused and listened for a moment. “I feel like I’m trapped
in a dentist’s office. How does this shit get you psyched for a
big game? You can’t dance to it or anything.”
“Ah, but just listen.”
“It doesn’t have lyrics,” Reece said.
“And your noise does? You can understand the words over
all that racket?”
Reece laughed. “Mikey, you’re a typical whitey snob,” he said.
“I prefer the term pompous honky ass, thank you.”
Good ol’ Reece. Michael held a glass of freshly squeezed orange
juice, but the thought of even a sip ted him. Last year the
knee, and now the stomach. It didn’t make sense. Michael had
always been the iest guy in the league. He had gone through
his first ten NBA seasons without a scratch before tearing apart
his knee a little more than a year ago. It was tough enough
trying to bounce back from reconstructive knee surgery at his age
. . . The last thing he needed was this mystery stomach ailment.
Putting down his glass, Michael moved across the room and made
sure the VCR was set. Then he turned off the stereo and turned on
the television. Sara would be making her NewsFlash debut in a
matter of minutes. Michael fidgeted in his seat. He twisted his
wedding band around and around and then rubbed his face. He tried
to relax, but, like Sara, he couldn’t. There was no reason to be
nervous, he reminded himself. Everything he had said to Sara on
the phone was true. She was an amazing reporter, the best. Very
sharp and quick. Well prepared and yet spontaneous. A bit of a
wise-ass sometimes. A sense of humor when it was called for. A
bulldog almost always.
Michael had learned firsthand how tough an interviewer Sara could
be. They had met six years ago when she was assigned to interview
him for the New York Herald two days before the start of the NBA
finals. She was supposed to do a personal, non-sports-related
piece on his life off the court. Michael did not like that. He
did not want his personal life, especially his past, splashed
across the headlines. It was none of anybody’s business, Michael
told Sara, resorting to more colorful terms to get his point
across and then slamming down the phone for emphasis. But Sara
Lowell was not so easily thwarted. To be more precise, Sara
Lowell did not know how to give up. She wanted the interview. She
went after it.
A jolt of pain knocked aside the memory. Michael clenched his
lower abdomen and doubled over on the couch. He held on and
waited. The pain subsided slowly.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He leaned back, glancing at the photograph of Sara and himself on
the shelf behind the TV. He stared at the picture now, watching
himself hunched over Sara with his arms locked around her small
waist. She looked so tiny, so achingly beautiful, so goddamn
fragile. He often wondered what it was that made Sara appear so
innocent, so delicate. Certainly not her figure. Despite the
limp, Sara worked out three times a week. Her body was small,
taut, athletic—dynamite might be a better way to describe it.
Sexy as hell. Michael examined the photograph again, trying to
look at his wife objectively. Some would say it was her pale
porcelain complexion that accounted for her unaffected
appearance, but that wasn’t what it was. Her eyes, Michael
thought now, those large green eyes that reflected frailty and
gentleness while maintaining the ability to be cunning and
probing. They were trusting eyes and eyes you could trust. A man
could bathe in those eyes, disappear forever, lose his soul for
all eternity.
They were also sexy as hell.
The phone interrupted his thoughts. Michael reached behind him
and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Michael.”
“How’s it going, Harvey?”
“Not bad. Look, Michael, I don’t want to keep you. I know the
show is about to go on.”
“We got a couple of minutes.” There was a cing sound in the
background. “What’s all that noise? You still at the clinic?”
“Yep,” Harvey replied.
“When was the last time you got some ?”
“You my mother?”
“Just asking,” Michael said. “I thought I was going to pick you
up at your apartment.”
“I didn’t have a chance to get out of here,” Harvey said. “I had
one of the nurses rent me a tux and bring it here. It’s just so
busy right now. Eric and I are swamped. Without Bruce here.”
Harvey stopped.
There was a moment of silence.
“I still don’t get it, Harv,” said Michael carefully, hoping his
friend was finally ready to talk about Bruce’s suicide.
“Neither do I,” Harvey said flatly. Then he added, “Listen, I
need to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Is Sara going to be at the benefit tonight?”
“She’ll be a little late.”
“But she’ll be there?”
Michael recognized the urgency in his old friend’s voice. He had
known Harvey almost twenty-four years, since a second-year intern
named Dr. Harvey Riker took care of an eight-year-old Michael
Silverman, who had been rushed to Saint Barnabas Hospital with a
concussion and broken arm.
“Of course she’ll be there.”
“Good. I’ll see you tonight, then.”
Michael stared at the receiver, puzzled. “Is everything all
right, Harv?”
“Fine,” he mumbled.
“Then what’s with the cloak-and-dagger phone call?”
“It’s just . . . nothing. I’ll explain later. What time you
picking me up?”
“Nine fifteen. Is Eric coming?”
“No,” Harvey said. “One of us has to run the store. I have to go,
Michael. I’ll see you at nine fifteen.”
The phone clicked in Michael’s ear.
DR. Harvey Riker replaced the receiver. He sighed heavily and put
a hand through his long, unruly, gray-brown hair, a cross between
Albert Einstein’s and Art Garfunkel’s. He looked every bit of his
fifty years. His muscle had turned to flab from lack of exercise.
His face was average to the point of tedium. Never much of a hunk
to begin with, Harvey’s looks had soured over the years like a
two-dollar Chianti.
He opened his desk drawer, poured himself a quick of
whiskey, and downed it in one gulp. His hands shook. He was
ed.
There is only one thing to do. I have to talk to Sara. It’s the
only way. And after that . . .
Better not to think about it.
Harvey swiveled his chair around to look at the three photographs
on his credenza. He picked up the one on the far right, the
picture of Harvey standing next to his partner and friend, Bruce
Grey.
Poor Bruce.
The two detectives had listened to Harvey’s suspicions
politely, nodded in unison, jotted down notes. When Harvey tried
to explain that Bruce Grey would never have committed suicide,
they listened politely, nodded in unison, jotted down notes. When
he told them Bruce had called him on the phone the same night he
leaped from the eleventh-floor window at the Days Inn, they
listened politely, nodded in unison, jotted down notes . . . and
concluded that Dr. Bruce Grey had committed suicide.
A suicide note had been found at the scene, the detectives
reminded him. A handwriting expert had confirmed that Bruce Grey
had written it. This case was open and shut.
Open and shut.
The second picture frame on the credenza held a photograph of
Jennifer, his former wife of twenty-six years, who had just
walked out on him forever. The third photograph was that of his
younger brother, Sidney, whose death from AIDS three years ago
had changed Harvey’s life forever. In the picture Sidney looked
y, tan, and a touch on the chubby side. When he died two
years later, his skin was pasty white where it was not covered
with purple lesions, and he weighed less than eighty pounds.
Harvey shook his head. All gone.
He leaned forward and picked up the photograph of his ex-wife. He
knew he had been as much to blame (more) for the failed marriage
as she was. Twenty-six years. Twenty-six years of marriage, of
shared and shattered dreams, rushed through his mind. For what?
What had happened? When had Harvey let his personal life crumble
into dust? His fingertips gently passed over her image. Could he
really blame Jennifer for getting fed up with the clinic, for not
wanting to sacrifice herself to a cause?
In truth, he did.
“It’s not y, Harvey. All that time working.”
“Jennifer, don’t you understand what I’m trying to do here?”
“Of course I do, but it’s gone beyond the point of obsession. You
have to take a break.”
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