Miracle Cure

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 gasps. “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 health 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 bloodshot 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 sight. 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 “spy” 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 relief. 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 Spy.

But what other choice did he have? He could go to the police, 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 police?

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 police, 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.