“Look, Mom, that’s Reece Porter!” Reece’s six-eight frame was about average for the NBA, but it was semi-freak anywhere else. His height always drew fascinated glances.
“I’m fine,” Sara said, hugging him tightly. “Reece, thanks for going with him.”
Reece shrugged. “He’s my friend,” he said simply. “And don’t worry too much about Mikey. The man is blessed. Remember how scared we were the last time we met in a hospital? All that blood and everything?”
Sara did. Every year when basketball season ended, she and Michael joined Reece and his Eurasian wife, Kureen, for a get-away-from-it-all vacation. Five years ago, when Michael and Sara were first getting serious, the four decided to charter a small cruise boat out of Florida and explore the Keys and the Bahamas. The past basketball season had been a particularly long one, ending when the Knicks bested the Seattle Supersonics in a grueling, bruising seven-game showdown. All four of them had been anxious to escape the world, the fans, and the press.
On the third day of the voyage Michael and Reece had gotten up early, hired a kid with a speedboat, and gone waterskiing. The kid had gotten drunk and crashed the boat into a rock formation while Michael was on the water skis. He had been rushed to a local Bahamian hospital, bleeding heavily, and spent the next three weeks in bed.
“I remember,” Sara said softly.
“But Mikey is — as one of the rookies would say — a tough old dude. He’ll be okay.”
Sara tried to take solace in Reece’s words, but something kept jabbing at the back of her mind, telling her that he was not going to be okay, that nothing was ever going to be okay again.
“What’s going on?” Harvey asked.
The young resident whose name tag read “John Richardson” looked up and spoke with quick precision. “We’re not sure yet. He’s suffering severe abdominal pain. Physical examination is remarkable for the liver being palpable four centimeters below the right costal margin. It’s extremely tender.”
“Hurts like hell is more like it,” Michael managed from his prone position on the table.
“Vital signs?”
“All stable.”
Harvey moved toward the bed. “Looking good, champ.”
“Feel like shit, Coach.”
“I was only kidding. You look like shit too.”
Michael managed a chuckle. “I got the varsity in here now. How’s it going, Eric?”
“Fine. Should I page Dr. Sagarel, Harv?”
Harvey nodded.
“See you in a bit, Mike,” Eric said.
“I’ll wait here for you.” Michael turned his attention back to Harvey. “Who is Dr. Sagarel?”
“A gastroenterologist.”
“Of course. I should have known.”
“Jesus, Michael, look at your shorts. They’re horrendous — even by your standards.”
“I ask for a doctor. I get a fashion critic.”
Harvey probed the liver area. “Does that hurt?”
“Like a son of a bitch.”
Harvey straightened his back and turned toward the resident. “Have you done the blood work yet?”
“Yes.”
“Get him an abdominal flat plate done stat.”
“I’ll also need to get a better history,” Richardson said. “It could be something he consumed—”
“Can’t be. He’s had this pain for weeks. And his skin is jaundiced.”
Eric came back into the room. “Dr. Sagarel will be here in about a half hour.”
“Michael,” Harvey asked, “have you noticed anything unusual in your urine lately?”
“A Datson hatchback came out the other day.”
“Hilarious. Now answer my question.”
Harvey saw the fear gather around Michael’s eyes. “I don’t know. The color’s been darker maybe.”
The doctors exchanged knowing glances.
“What?” Michael asked. “What have I got?”
“I don’t know yet. Eric, make sure they do a hep screen on the blood. Also EBV and CMV titers. Then bring him down for an abdominal ultrasound.”
“One step ahead of you.”
“Now in English?” Michael asked.
“All the signs point to hepatitis,” Harvey explained. “Eric and Dr. Richardson are going to take you downstairs for X-rays now. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Dr. Raymond Markey, Assistant Secretary for Health of the Department of Health and Human Services, stared out the window at the lush green compound in Bethesda, Maryland. To him, the National Institutes of Health resembled a cross between a European spa and a military base. From his corner office the wilderness seemed to stretch for miles. But Markey knew better. He knew, for instance, that his big boss, the President of the United States, was about ten miles away, beginning his weekly brunch meeting with the Vice President. The two men met most Mondays for a light brunch and a heavy discussion. Raymond had attended a few of those brunches. He did not particularly care for the conversation or the food.
He sighed deeply, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He was excruciatingly nearsighted. When he viewed the sprawling landscape without his glasses, the world turned into a large abstract painting. The bright colors bled into one another and seemed to move in a kaleidoscope pattern.
He put his glasses back on, turned away from the calming view, and glanced at the two reports on his desk. The first was marked “Confidential!” and there were numerous seal protectors on the envelope so that Markey could be sure that no one had opened it before him. The envelope was also specially treated so that its contents could not be read by holding it up to a light. Any tampering left permanent scars. It was a lot of security, but sometimes every bit of it was needed.
The second envelope read “Sidney Pavilion, Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, New York.” The security surrounding this file, while significant, was somewhat more limited.
Assistant Secretary for Health of the Department of Health and Human Services — a long and rather unimpressive title, Raymond Markey thought. But he knew better. His office was in charge of the U.S. Public Health Service, controlling such agencies as the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, and the National Institutes of Health — hardly an unimportant or ceremonial post.
Markey reached for his letter opener and slit the confidential envelope. He then laid the reports side by side. The regular report had been filled out by Dr. Harvey Riker and for the first time Dr. Bruce Grey’s signature had been omitted. Too bad. As for the confidential report… well, safer not to think about the source. Repeating the name of the author out loud could prove hazardous to one’s health. Even fatal.
Markey skimmed the files for obvious discrepancies. One jumped out at him immediately.
The number of patients.
According to Riker’s report, they had been treating forty-one patients, two of whom had been murdered in recent weeks. Riker’s write-up was factual, not drawing any conclusions, but he did mention the strange coincidence that two patients had died of multiple stab wounds within a couple of weeks of each other. Markey also noticed that Riker never referred to Grey’s death as a suicide but as a “shock” and “death that made no sense.”
Curious description, Markey mused.
He examined the reports again. The report stamped “Confidential” stated unequivocally that there had originally been forty-two patients, not forty-one.
Markey thumbed back to the beginning of the confidential report. He was sure that Harvey Riker was behind the discrepancy. He knew Riker well and did not trust him. Many years earlier, when Raymond Markey had been
