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. “
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.
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 jackhammer 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 was 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:
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 king-sized bed, cried for a brief moment, got dressed, and went home.
When she arrived at the Lowell mansion a few hours later, she poured a bowl of cereal and sat down at the
