He thought. “Eric taking my blood, the little vampire.”
“Well, nothing much has happened since then.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the television.
“CNN Headline News. Today’s major story surrounds the still-unnamed AIDS clinic that is treating basketball star Michael Silverman. Thousands of gay activists marched upon Washington today, demanding that the FDA approve nationwide testing of the little-known drug called SR1. Donations to the financially troubled institution have been pouring in from all over since the
The doctor appeared on the screen, his left hand holding an earplug in place. On the bottom of the screen the words “San Francisco, California” appeared in white.
“Dr. Samuels, what is the reaction of the medical community to last night’s
“Cautiously intrigued,” the doctor replied.
“Could you elaborate for us?”
“Certainly. While the press may want to have a field day by celebrating the discovery of this supposed cure, the medical community has to question the authenticity of the report. This unnamed clinic has released no results yet, no firm findings, has not written a paper for
“Are you suggesting fraud?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, but I do believe that the media and the medical community would be acting irresponsibly if we accepted these claims as fact without further evidence.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The anchorman spun his chair in order to face forward. “In a related story, New York Knicks basketball superstar Michael Silverman shocked the sports world last night with his announcement that he had contracted the AIDS virus. According to clinic doctors and last night’s report on
Another face came on the screen. Michael’s body stiffened.
“It can’t be,” he uttered.
“Michael, what is it? What’s the matter?”
Michael continued to stare at the image on the screen. The face had changed very little in the past twenty years. A little gray around the temples. A little more sag on the jawline and neck. The overall appearance, however, was radically different. A tailored sports coat. Nice tie. Nice, neat haircut. Just your typical, friendly Joe.
The anchorman continued. “With us now from Lincoln, Nebraska, is Mr. Martin Johnson, the stepfather who raised Michael Silverman. Mr. Johnson, thank you for joining us.”
“My pleasure, Chuck.”
“Mr. Johnson, what do you think about the reports that your stepson contracted AIDS through a blood transfusion?”
Martin Johnson shrugged. “Might be. I would never want to speak ill of the boy, but…”
“But?”
“Well, it seems to me that there is a far greater likelihood that he got it from one of his boyfriends.”
The anchorman was nearly salivating. “Then Mr. Silverman is gay?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to say that. I’d say he’s more like one of those bisexuals. He’s had plenty of sex with both men and women. Started at a young age. But he prefers men, I’m almost sure.”
Michael flew up from the bed. “Turn it off!”
Sara grabbed the remote control and snapped the OFF button. The picture turned into a bright dot before fading away. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Lying son of a bitch. I haven’t seen him since I was ten years old.”
Sara flicked the switch on Michael’s portable tape deck. Bach gently blew into the room, but it did little to assuage him. “It’s strange,” she said. “Why do you think he’d lie like that?”
“Because he’s a psychopath, that’s why.”
Sara shook her head. “There has to be more to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure exactly. I just have a feeling he wasn’t acting on his own.”
“Could be,” Michael said. “So what do we do now?”
“We’ll have to work some damage control, come up with a counteroffensive, prove the slimeball was lying.”
“No matter what we do,” Michael said, “some people are going to believe him.”
“Yes, some people are going to believe him.”
Michael shook his head. “After all these years, after all this time, seeing his face again…”
On the other side of the country Jennifer Riker began to shake. She could not believe what she was seeing on the television screen. Like something out of a cheap horror movie, Marty Johnson had risen again. She had hoped to shut away the memory of his evil smirk forever, but now it was back, dragging painful images that would not go away into plain sight — the bruises on little Michael’s body, the black eyes, the concussions, the hospital stays, the absolute terror on the boy’s face.
The sick bastard was back.
Jennifer let her anger fester, mount, become obsessive. She concentrated on it, encouraged it, and hoped that it would block out the more painful fact.
Michael had AIDS.
She shook her head. That poor kid. How many times had she said that about Michael? Thousands. Despite being born with looks, intelligence, and enough talent for ten people, bad luck had still tagged along after Michael like a faithful dog.
Jennifer glanced down at the coffee table. For the millionth time she read the name Susan on the envelope and wondered what to do. Last night she had considered trying to reach Susan but had decided it was foolish. Bruce was dead. Whatever he had written in the note would not change that fact. What was the rush? When Susan came back the note would still be here.
But now Jennifer was not so sure about her decision. Something bothersome gnawed at the back of her brain. Bruce’s suicide, the mysterious package mailed to an unused California post office box, the murders, the SR1 cure, the cryptic writing on the envelope:
And now Michael.
Her sadness at all this bad news had now transformed itself into something more, something deeper. Though she could not say specifically why, she felt frightened. No, more than that. Petrified. She chastised herself for being paranoid, for seeing conspiracy in everything. But she could not shake the feeling. Something was very wrong here, and it had something to do with Bruce’s medical files and that note to Susan.
Jennifer sat back, her head reeling in a rising spiral of uncertainty.
Harvey picked up his private line. “Hello?”
“Please forgive me, you great big hunk. I want to be your love slave.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Cassandra, this really isn’t the time.”
Nervous pause. “I’m
“Please don’t.”
“I said I’m sorry. I can’t take back—”
“It’s not that,” he interrupted. “I just don’t have the time to get involved with someone right now.”
“I blew it, huh?”
“No. It should have never happened in the first place.”
