now, worse even than Michael. Standing aside and watching helplessly while a loved one suffered was often more difficult than the simpler task of suffering through the physical trauma. Harvey wished he could help. He wished that he could take Michael’s place, that it was he rather than Michael who had to bear this great burden. But of course that was impossible.
Cruel as it seemed, Michael and Sara would have to go through this ordeal alone. Crueler still, Harvey knew, was that he saw the possible benefits he could gain from Michael’s situation. When Harvey considered the positive implications for AIDS patients generally and the clinic specifically — the hope, the finances, the publicity — he could not help but hope Michael would go public with his illness. Awful as it might seem, he realized that Michael’s diagnosis could in the long run save thousands of lives. Michael could do for AIDS what no one since Rock Hudson or Ryan White had done — bring it home to the public, make it real, change the perspective of thousands, perhaps millions of people.
And that was why Sara was angry with him. Harvey had really not said very much, but his feelings on the matter were clear. Michael had been handed a responsibility that was bigger than all of them. A rare opportunity to do good had been thrust upon him. He could not just toss it away. And Sara saw that. In her heart she knew what would have to be. But right now Sara’s mind was too clouded by her pain for her to see what was so clear. That was certainly understandable. Right now the rest of the world did not matter to her. Only Michael mattered. Protecting him.
So steam would eventually have to be blown off. The hurt would have to run its course before they could all look at things rationally, calmly. But not tonight. Tonight they needed to be left alone to ponder their fate. Saving lives could wait for another sunrise.
Harvey moved down the hallway in the direction of the clinic’s laboratory. The night was absolutely still now. Harvey could hear only two noises: the heels of his shoes clacking against the cool tile and—
— and the rustling noise coming from behind the lab door.
He froze. Winston and Eric had sealed all experiments and locked the lab door three hours ago. No one else had a key. And no one was supposed to be in there.
That was certainly true. Harvey slid closer to the door. The door’s window had a shade pulled over it so he could not peer in. Instead, he pressed his ear against the pane. It felt cold to the touch. He listened. Nothing. The lab was quiet. He closed his eyes, straining to hear.
The rustling sound started up again.
His head hurt like a bastard now; the pounding in his forehead was almost audible. Harvey reached for the knob, grasped it, and turned. The door was locked. An icy coldness glided through him. His hand flew away from the door. The lab door was never locked when someone was inside. Never. He tried to peer into the room through the tiny crack where the shade did not cover when he realized something that twisted his stomach. He looked down by the floor to confirm his fears.
No lights.
There were no streams of light coming through the shade opening or from under the door. The lights in the lab were off.
What kind of scientist works in the dark?
Sweat popped onto his forehead.
He had no answer to stave off his mounting panic. Acting without conscious thought, Harvey’s hand reached into his pocket for the key to the lab. He took it out and moved it toward the lock. From behind the door, Harvey heard a file drawer slam shut. He swallowed in a deep breath, slid the key into the hole, and flung open the door.
The room was dark, the dim hall lights providing only a modicum of illumination. Harvey thought he saw a movement in the corner of his eye. He spun toward it, but there was nothing. Could have been just his imagination. His hand reached out blindly, finding the light switch and flicking it up. The lights came on, the sudden brightness startling him.
At first he saw nothing unusual. The lab was neat, tidy. No loose papers were visible. The microscopes were covered with plastic. The test tubes sealed. Only one thing looked different and that one thing made Harvey’s eyes widen. Suddenly Harvey forgot about things like caution and wariness. Gone were the worries that a dangerous prowler might still be in the lab, hiding, preparing to pounce. He stepped forward, concerned solely for the welfare of what lay beyond the jimmied lock on the other side of the room.
That was a mistake.
Without warning, something heavy slammed against the base of Harvey’s neck. His body pitched forward. Sharp slivers of pain and numbness erupted throughout his skull. Harvey grasped his head between both hands as he folded at the waist and fell to the floor. His eyes closed.
Jennifer had a light dinner by herself, caught the latest Woody Allen movie at the CinePlex, one of those movie theaters that seemed to have more screens than clients, and arrived back at the house a little past midnight. She tossed the little airline bag filled with the contents from Bruce’s post office box onto the couch and collapsed beside it. For a few moments she did nothing other than stare at the Sabena World Airways logo on the flight bag. Her mind traveled back ten years — ten years since she and Harvey had flown on Sabena to Brussels to begin a European odyssey through Belgium, France, and Holland. First-class. Champagne and caviar on board. What a magnificent trip. Alas, it had been the last vacation she had convinced Harvey to take. He, in truth, had not enjoyed himself. Relaxing, sightseeing, eating gourmet, being pampered in fine hotels — that was just not for him.
The stupid fool.
All right, so she was bitter. She had a right to be. She had loved Harvey. Still did. But the man did not know how to live. Oh sure, he could be funny and seemingly carefree and he was a far cry from some sort of bookworm, but he was obsessed with his work. With saving the world. Yes, she had married a dreamer and that had been great while they were courting. It had been romantic, even Gothic. But it had worn on her after a while. His selflessness began to eat away at her lust for life, leaving her with little more than self-pity.
The stupid fool.
Bruce Grey had been dedicated too, but the man understood that there were limits. He was not nearly as naive and foolhardy as Harvey. Bruce saw reality. He knew that the two of them could not stop the mass suffering, only alleviate it a little. That was all a person could be expected to do. For Bruce, that had been enough. But not for Harvey—
Jennifer sat up suddenly. The manila envelope. The one Bruce had addressed to himself the day he died. She had not yet opened it. She slid over toward the Sabena flight bag, grabbed it, and rummaged through the horde of envelopes. It did not take her long to locate the packet in question. It was the thickest and heaviest by far. She extracted it from the bag and laid it on her lap. Bruce’s name and address were clearly written in his own handwriting. So strange.
She walked over to the desk, took hold of the letter opener, and sliced open the envelope. Numerous papers, tubular containers, and what looked like files streamed out like candy from a broken pinata.
With a sigh, Jennifer began to read them.
“Owww.”
“Harvey?”
“My head,” Harvey groaned.
“Harvey, can you hear me?” Sara asked.
Harvey’s eyes opened slightly. The lights seemed particularly bright, pricking his eyes. He closed them, shaded them with his hand, and tried again.
“Harvey?”
