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there are times when scott is made so weak from the injections of sri that i fear for him. harvey and i talked about it last night. we both agree that we have to do something to lessen the side effects. still, the alternative death from aids is far worse than what we are seeing in trian.
the file held no more surprising revelations, just a few scattered notes about trian's reaction to sri. bruce's last note read:
dna? a vs. b
what did that mean? she shrugged, put down the file, and picked up another. whitherson, william. his file was very much like trian's.
whitherson had also been transformed to hiv negative, but he had other problems:
bill's family is so damn un supportive his father won't speak to him, and his mother feels trapped between her husband and her son, afraid to talk to bill because her husband would see it as some sort of betrayal.
p" horse's asses, both of them. the funny thing is bill still loves them like mad. he calls them all the time. i hear him pleading over the phone in a hushed, defeated voice.
"but don't you understand? i'm dying." still nothing.
and the same last note:
dna? a vs. b. she read about krutzer, theodore, next. his pattern was very similar to the others with only a few noticeable differences:
unlike whitherson's family, teddy's seems positively unbelievable. his father and mother have not only accepted their son's homosexuality, they seem to encourage it. his father invites teddy's boyfriend to the house on weekends. they go fishing together.
and then further:
another cured patient. it's too good to be true. krutzer's illness had never been acute, nothing worse than a bout with hepatitis and a few skin rashes. and now he's cured. harvey made a suggestion today which i think is valid. the conversation between harvey, eric, and me went something like this.
harvey: you do all the testing on krutzer, bruce. don't let anyone else but yourself touch this case. you do the tests in the lab yourself.
eric: why?
harvey: independent research. if different people handle different cases, then one man cannot be accused of tampering with the results. i suggest you try to bring in markey on this one.
me: okay, i'll give him a call. i doubt he'll be interested.
harvey: at least we can say we offered him the opportunity.
eric: i'm not sure why we have to do this. we don't have time to play lab technicians.
harvey: it's too important, eric. we can't let there be any holes in our research for our enemies to exploit.
the rest of the files read similarly, each with its own unique twists and turns. nothing odd about that. what was odd, however, was that they all ended with the same strange note:
dna? a vs. b. jennifer was about to reach for the last file when she remembered the small styrofoam containers. she glanced at them, stacked on the edge of the couch. each one had a patient's name taped to the outside. she pried open the one that read
"trian, scott."
inside were two small test tubes labeled a and b. what the...?
she pulled the small test tubes more like vials really out of the snug holders. blood. they were blood samples. she examined the other styrofoam containers. all were the same. a patient's name taped to the styrofoam outside, two test tubes labeled a and b both filled with blood on the inside.
what for?
then she noticed the small white envelope.
it had fallen under the couch and only a corner of it was visible.
jennifer reached down and picked up the envelope. plain white. no return address, no markings. the kind of envelope you'd buy at a five and ten. bruce had written "susan" across the front in his familiar scrawl. jennifer turned the envelope over.
when she read what bruce had written across the back seal, she felt her stomach drop into her feet. in small, plain block letters, it said:
to be opened upon my death.
"need some help?"
max bernstein looked up at sara.
"yeah, come on in. where's michael?"
"being treated," sara replied.
"are those the patient files?"
max nodded, a fresh pencil in his mouth.
"this sucker just gets weirder and weirder."
sara sat down, unsnapped her brace and rubbed her leg.
"i'm listening."
"okay," max began.
"here are the medical files for all the victims. let's start with trian. he was one of the first patients, admitted almost three years ago. whitherson came in about the same time. same with martino, the intravenous drug abuser."
"and bradley?"
"that's just it. bradley is the oddball out. he was in here less than a year. he was in the middle of treatment. he was doing well, but he had not yet turned hiv negative. it doesn't fit. did harvey fill you in on our talk?"
"did he tell you about his theory about someone trying to destroy the clinic?"
sara nodded.
"it made sense to michael and me."
"made sense to me too, but there are so many holes. take bradley jenkins, for example. let's assume that these conspiracy guys are out to get rid of the cured aids patients the proof, to use harvey's word.
then why kill bradley jenkins? he was a new patient at the clinic. and why move his body behind a gay bar? and another thing. if you're out to do serious damage to a place and you don't care about killing a few people in the process, why pussy-foot around? why not go all out? why not burn down the pavilion? why not just kill harvey and eric and destroy their records?"
"i see your point."
"i don't know, sara, something just doesn't fit. why did the killer make the murders so obvious?"
"he's a psycho."
"a psycho who has penetrated the inner sanctum of this hospital? i don't think so."
"maybe he wanted to distract everyone by making them think he was just targeting the gay community," sara said.
"how so?"
"his first two victims were blatant homosexuals killed in a gruesome manner," sara explained.
"the press was bound to pick it up. the killer knew that. he also knew that the world would immediately assume the murders were the work of a psychotic homophobe. no one looked deeper than that pat explanation at first. the world searched for the gay slasher, a man who murders homosexuals randomly, not a calculating killer intent on exterminating patients at a confidential clinic."
"but the press didn't go after the story that much until..."
"until they killed the son of a famous senator," sara finished.
"which explains why he killed bradley. it attracted media attention.
everyone finally focused in on the gay slasher."
max scratched his face, thinking.
"i see what you're saying, but it still doesn't jibe. why did the killer move bradley's body behind the gay bar?"
"so the world would know he was gay," sara tried.
"the killer wanted everyone to think he was the gay slasher, a man who terrorized the gay community. trian and whitherson were known homosexuals. bradley's sexual preference, on the other hand, was a well-kept secret. what better way to reveal the truth than to dump bradley's body behind a gay bar in the village?" "okay," he said, "that's theory one. i'm not sure i buy it, but let's move on."
"i don't completely buy it either," sara said, "but let me throw something else out at you. could the killer just have been after bradley?"
"what do you mean?"
"i mean, could the killer have murdered trian and whitherson to make it look like a serial killer when the real target was bradley all along?
could someone have been out to destroy senator jenkins by "
"forget it.
i thought about that already. it makes no sense.
why kill ricky martino after the fact? why break into the lab?
and what about the clinic connection? are you just going to write that off as a coincidence? and what about grey's supposed suicide "
"enough already," she interrupted.
"i get the point. forget i mentioned it."
"sony" he stacked the files and pushed them away.
"nervous about tonight's press conference?"
"terrified. but i'm a lot more afraid of this disease."
max nodded.
"michael's strong, sara. harvey will cure him."
harvey riker picked up his private line.
"hello?" "hello, handsome," cassandra said.
"i'd like to rip your clothes off."
"i'm sorry. you must have the wrong number."
"all the better," she replied.
"how did your meeting go with northeastern air?"
"it's not over yet. how's your day been?"
he considered telling cassandra about michael's condition but quickly dismissed the thought. it was not his place to say anything.
"not good. we lost a patient last night. murdered, we think."
"another one?"
"yes."
cassandra hesitated.
"do you really think that reverend sanders is connected to this?"
"i wouldn't put it past him."
"and my father?"
harvey weighed his words carefully.
"it seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. why did he lie to us? what was he trying to hide?"
harvey's intercom buzzed before she could answer.
"hold on a second, cassandra." he pressed the intercom button.
"hello?"
"doctor riker?"
"yes," harvey replied.
"there's a call for you on line seven."
"i'm in the middle of something here. is it important?"
there was a small pause.
"its dr. raymond markey."
harvey felt afraid. the assistant secretary of health and human services never called unless it was bad news.
"hold on a second." he pressed a button.
"i'll call you back, cassandra."
he pushed another button.
"dr. markey?"
"hello, dr. riker. how are you this morning?"
"not very well."
"oh?"
"another one of our patients died last night. he may have been murdered."
"murdered?" markey repeated.
"my god, riker, how many does that make?"
harvey caught himself just before saying the number four.
"uh, three."
"what was the latest victim's name?"
"martino."
"martino, martino... ah here it is. riccardo martino? intravenous drug abuser?"
"that's him."
"so let's see. the other two were trian and whitherson. both gay.
multiple stab wounds. the same with martino?"
"no."
"then what killed him?"
"an injection of cyanide."
"my god, how awful. terrible thing."
"yes, it is. i'm really beginning to worry about the safety of my other patients."
"yes, well, i wouldn't worry about that too much. i'm sure this is all nothing more than a terrible coincidence."
a terrible coincidence?
"with all due respect, sir, three patients all from the same clinic have been killed."
"yes, but you're forgetting one important factor: bradley jenkins, the senator's son, was also found stabbed to death.
according to the police, he was murdered by the same man who killed trian and whitherson this so-called gay slasher. and jenkins was not a patient at the clinic. i have your patient list right in front of me and his name is not on it."
harvey froze, trapped. for some reason he was sure that raymond markey was smiling on the other end of the phone.
"well, yes, but-"
"so there is nothing to worry about. now if jenkins had been a patient at the clinic, well, then we'd have quite a problem on our hands. your reports would be inaccurate. and if that were the case, then everything in the reports could be questioned. we'd have to assume other discrepancies exist. all your studies would have to be re-examined and all your findings would be considered tainted. you could lose your grant."
harvey felt something in his gut tighten. the show tonight.
the report on the clinic, on the murders... on bradley jenkins.
lieutenant bernstein's voice came back to him.
"what exactly is parker going to cover?" max had asked sara.
"the aids cure? the gay slasher connection? senator jenkins' kid being treated at the clinic?"
and sara's answer.
"all of it."
raymond markey did not speak for a few moments, allowing his words to float about, settle, and then burrow into the surroundings.
the son of a bitch already knows about jenkins, harvey thought.
but how? and why didn't i think of this before? what the hell is going on here?
at last raymond markey broke the silence.
"but of course," he said, "we both know that bradley jenkins was not a patient at the clinic so you have nothing to worry about. the deaths are nothing but an awful coincidence. goodbye, dr. riker."
raymond markey put down the phone. in front of his desk reverend sanders sat smiling. such an eerie smile, raymond thought. so genuinely jolly, friendly, gentle. not sinister at all.
what a mask it was. incredible really as incredible as the man himself. markey knew sanders' history. poor boy from the south.
father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. mother was a drunk. sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out of poverty, stampeding over anything that got in his way.
he was shrewd. he knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a power base. his influence had started with the poor and uneducated and now stretched into some of washington's most powerful circles.
including mine, markey thought.
"done," markey said, standing. he adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a picture frame. raymond markey always wore red ties.
they had become something of a trademark over the years.
red ties and thick glasses.
"good," sanders said.
"has your source come up with anything new?"
"nothing. just what we already know. a camera crew has been hanging out at the clinic, but everything is being kept hush hush
the reverend shook his head seriously.
"not a good sign.
they might go public with michael silverman's illness."
"you don't think my call will stop them?" markey asked.
sanders thought a moment.
"i don't think riker would dare publicize jenkins' connection to the murders," he said.
"but if they've decided to go public with michael silverman, i don't see how your conversation with riker is going to dissuade them."
"maybe we should forget this whole thing," raymond said tentatively.
"it may have gone too far already."
sanders looked at him with burning eyes.
"are you trying to back out, raymond?"
"no, it's just-"
"do i have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission? you were the one who never trusted riker, disliked him personally and professionally. and i have that videotape right-" "no!" markey shouted. he closed his eyes for a brief moment, his breathing shallow. his voice grew calmer.
"i'm still behind you one hundred percent, but you have to admit the conspiracy is cracking."
sanders' smile returned.
"conspiracy is such an ugly word," he said.
"i see it as more of a holy mission. the lord is behind us in our crusade to do his work." straight from his tv show, markey thought in disgust.
sanders' "holy mission" was to tell the world that armageddon was upon them. and what better proof of the oncoming apocalypse than the aids epidemic.
after all, reverend sanders would shout into the microphone, aids is the modern equivalent of the plagues of egypt. it strikes down the immoral without mercy. yes, my friends, god is preparing for the final battle. for armageddon. god has sent down a clear sign that we cannot ignore. god has sent down this incurable plague to rid the planet of the perverted, hedonistic scum. and soon the final battle between good and evil will be upon us, amen, praise the lord. who will be ready?
who will bask in the light of god, and who will join the aids carriers in the fires of hell? we must arm ourselves for this battle, my friends, and we need your help to do it. now is the time for those with untainted souls to give and give generously.
then sanders would show a few slides of how god's plague could ravage and pillage a human body into scraps of useless tissue and marrow. his mesmerized, horrified followers would stare at the screen in terror while the contribution baskets were passed among them. from the pulpit sanders would watch the baskets fill and then overflow with green.
ah, but if aids were somehow cured, if the lord's plague were somehow lifted... well, that could throw a real socket wrench into reverend sanders' interpretation of the gospel.
strange thing was, raymond was convinced that sanders really believed most of it. oh, he knew how to fake a miracle and he sure liked siphoning off a lot of money, but he honestly felt that he was doing god's work here. when sanders compared aids with biblical plagues, he saw a direct correlation. why, he once asked raymond, was it so hard to believe that god could function in the twentieth century just as well as he had in biblical times? did people think god had lost his power over the centuries?
"the point remains," markey said.
"we're losing the base of our support."
"you're wrong, raymond. they are still with us."
"how can you say that? senator jenkins "
"stephen is grieving right now," sanders interrupted.
"it must have been a terrible blow to find his son was an immoral pervert.
he will rejoin us when he comes to his senses."
raymond looked at him incredulously.
"you can't be serious.
you know what he did. he sold us out."
"yes, i know. and i don't like it. but he is still a powerful senator and we need him. i want you to call him, raymond. tell him i expect to see him at our next meeting."
"and when is that going to be?"
ernest sanders shrugged.
"depends," he said.
"if michael silverman goes public with his illness, then i want you to call an emergency meeting right away. all of us."
"all of us? but silverman is john lowell's son-in-law."
sanders chuckled lightly.
"don't worry about dr. lowell. i'll take care of him." he stood, put on his coat, and walked to the door.
"after all," he reminded markey, "john lowell is one of us."
harvey stormed into michael's room, his eyes wide with panic.
"sara, thank god i found you."
she was sitting on the side of michael's bed. sara and michael had been going over his press statement. they had decided to make it as brief as possible.
"what's the matter?" she asked.
"where is donald parker?" harvey asked.
"he should be here in a few moments. what's going on?"
harvey's words rushed out.
"you have to speak with him.
he can't mention bradley jenkins' connection to the clinic."
"why not?"
"because it could jeopardize everything." harvey quickly recounted his conversation with assistant secretary markey, his sentences stumbling against one another.
"if markey finds out i left bradley's name off the progress reports, i could lose the clinic. all our findings would be labeled invalid." "could they do that?" michael asked.
"markey will certainly give it his best shot. he's itching for an excuse to reallocate our funds. this would be just what he needs. we can't let him find out bradley was treated here."
sara nodded.
"i'll speak to donald as soon as he gets here."
cassandra woke up in a familiar state of disorientation and pain. the disorientation came from not knowing where she was, the pain from a massive hangover. the disorientation usually lasted only a few moments, just until her mind could scrape together enough outside stimuli to reconstruct the previous evening. the pain customarily clung to her a little longer.
"harvey?" she called out.
no answer.
she groaned. she clasped her head between both hands, but the internal jack-hammer continued to rip through her temples.
by exerting herself, she was able to pry open both eyelids. she squinted in the harsh light, though the shades were pulled and all the lights were out. in fact, the room was fairly dark.
she groaned again.
it was a hotel room, not harvey's apartment. a fancy hotel room. a travel brochure would call it 'lush" and "well-appointed."
in the distance a car honked its horn, but to cassandra it might as well have been a blown amplifier from a rock concert taking place somewhere in her cerebrum.
"shhh," she said out loud.
her hands held her head in place, waiting until time glued her skull back together. she tried to remember what had happened. the meeting with northeastern air. had they gotten the account? not yet.
northeastern's marketing director, a runaway egomaniac, had held off making a decision. then they had gone drinking at the... at the plaza, that's where she was.
what had they talked about? she couldn't remember. the marketing director, while good-looking, was obnoxious, overbearing, and conceited. a big-time phony. when he opened his mouth, shit came out.
she tried to recall what he had said, but the only thing she could remember him saying was "me, i, me, i, me, i."
then what?
pretty simple. the marketing director had taken her upstairs, fucked her, and left. it started coming back to her now. the sex was bad. he was a "poser," someone more interested in his appearance than in what he was doing, the kind of guy who would rather look in a mirror than at his partner. might as well have been making love to himself.
cassandra sat up and glanced about the room. yep, he was gone, thank god. he had left a note on the night table. she reached for it and read:
congratulations. you got the account.
he had not signed the note, just left his business card.
christ.
she swung her legs off the bed and managed to stand. the room was like so many others she had been in spacious, beautiful, immaculate, expensive furnishings, clean sheets, thick towels. only the best for cassandra lowell. never a sleazy motel.
if you wanted to fuck cassandra lowell, you had to surround her with beautiful things. you had to take her to a classy place.
she was, after all, no cheap whore.
she was a classy whore.
she headed toward the bathroom. standing outside the shower, she turned on the hot water and waited till the water steamed before stepping under the spray. she stood there for a very long time, letting the near-scorching water pound down on her. she lathered her body and rinsed off repeatedly. forty-five minutes later, she dried herself off. then she sat on the kingsized bed, cried for a brief moment, got dressed, and went home.
when she arrived at the lowell mansion a few hours later, she grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table.
"good morning, honey," john lowell said.
cassandra looked up. her father was wearing a charcoal turtleneck, his hair neatly groomed, his cheeks flushed. her father was still a good-looking man, she thought, but he had not had a serious relationship with a woman since her mother's death almost ten years ago. a shame and yet cassandra wondered how she would feel if another woman were to light up her father's eyes the way her mother had.
spiteful, probably. that would be typical of her.
"good morning," she replied.
"have you heard from sara?"
"no. should i have?"
her father shrugged.
"i called the hospital. they told me michael checked out this morning.
i called their house, but all i got was the answering machine."
"did you try dr. riker?" she asked.
dr. lowell nodded.
"he hasn't returned my call. i don't think he will."
"why not?"
"let's just say that harvey riker and i are not exactly buddies."
cassandra lowered her eyes. she felt something peculiar, something, she guessed, akin to shame.
"still," dr. lowell continued, "it's quite strange."
"what is?"
"michael has hepatitis b, which means he'll have to be hospitalized for at least three weeks. why would he check out?"
"maybe they moved him to another hospital." "maybe," dr. lowell said doubtfully.
cassandra remembered how quickly harvey had hustled out of the apartment after eric's call yesterday morning. she had not picked up much of the conversation, but harvey's tone had been grave, nervous.
she had also heard him mention michael's name before hanging up and rushing out the door without so much as a goodbye.
is something seriously wrong with michael?
"i have to go," her father said.
"if your sister calls, tell her she can reach me on the car phone." he kissed cassandra on the cheek and walked toward the door. he had not asked where she had been the past five nights or with whom. when it came to sexual matters, her father liked to pretend nothing was amiss easier on the of' morals than the truth.
cassandra thought about harvey. she wondered why she had ended up in bed with that neanderthal marketing director (what the hell was his name?) when things had been going so well... too well?... with harvey.
well, c'est la vie. it could be that she and harvey were never meant to last. or it could be that she had too much to drink.
or it could be... or it could be that you're a worthless whore, cassandra.
she closed her eyes. when she heard her father drive away, cassandra stood and crept down the corridor toward his study.
it was time to put last night behind her. there were other matters, more important matters, to consider.
she knew that what she was about to do was wrong. she knew that her father's study was off limits, that she had no right to pry into his private affairs. but harvey's words and maybe the need to make up for last night propelled her forward: "it seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing
sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. why did he lie to us? what was he trying to hide?" indeed, she thought. what was or is he trying to hide?
could he really be connected with reverend sanders? could her father really have something to do with the trouble at the clinic?
she reached the door to his study, turned the knob, and entered. her father's office was her favorite room in the house.
so spacious, with high ceiling, dark oak everywhere, thousands of books like henry higgins' study in my fair lady. she crept behind the large antique desk and pulled the side drawer. it would not open. she tried it again. locked. she sat back in the plush leather swivel chair. now where did he hide that damn key? her hand felt around the underside of the middle drawer. a few moments later she felt something cool, metallic.
bingo.
her fingers closed around the small key and ripped away the ipe. she unlocked the desk and began to rifle through its on tents in the bottom right-hand drawer, she found his file of personal letters. she skimmed through them until she found one that piqued her interest. it was from dr. leonard bronkowitz, the chief trustee at columbia presbyterian hospital:
dear john, i know this is going to upset you immensely, but the board has decided to go ahead with sidney pavilion.
despite your rather persuasive arguments, a slim majority of the board members seems to feel that aids is an illness which has been ignored for far too long.
while many members agreed with your point that the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction now that the world has recognized the severity of the illness, the board also believes that dr. riker and dr. grey could make some serious headway into developing a vaccine for the virus. aside from the benefits for mankind, such a vaccine could bring the hospital additional prestige, and in turn, finances.
i realize that this will hinder your own programs at the cancer center, but i hope you will support us in this new and exciting endeavor.
sincerely, leonard bronkowitz, m.d.
and there was a letter from washington dealing with the same subject:
dear dr. lowell, the medical disbursements for this fiscal year have been allocated and i regret to say that there will be no funds for the new wing at the cancer center. we realize and respect the importance of your work, but the fact remains that new york city and, more specifically, columbia presbyterian medical center have already received more than a lion's share of funds, most of which have gone to the center's new aids clinic, operated by dr. harvey riker and dr. bruce grey.
personally, i believe your work is crucial and am disappointed in this decision, but since you are a former surg-->>