Miracle Cure

“Just come out and say it.”

The smile fled Cassandra’s face, leaving behind no traces it had ever been there. Her expression was hard, serious. She sat down on the bed next to Sara and took her hand.

Sara looked down at their hands and then up into her sister’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked gently.

“I know I haven’t been the best sister in the world,” Cassandra said.

“Neither have I.”

“But I love you.”

Sara tightened her grip on Cassandra’s cold hand. “I love you too,” she said.

Tears began to slide down Cassandra’s cheek. “I think Dad is mixed up in this whole Gay Slasher thing.”

Sara felt her body stiffen. “What?”

Cassandra nodded. “I think he’s involved in some kind of plot to destroy the clinic.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I overheard him arguing with Reverend Sanders in his study the morning after the charity ball.”

“But Dad said he didn’t know him.”

“I know. Harvey told me that. So I became suspicious. I went through his desk when he wasn’t around. There were letters saying that the funds Dad wanted for the new wing at the Cancer Center were going to Sidney Pavilion instead. One was from a guy named Markey—”

“Dr. Raymond Markey?”

“That’s him. Assistant Secretary of something.”

“Health and Human Services.”

“Right.”

Sara tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly dried up. “But that doesn’t mean he’s involved with Sanders.”

“That’s what I thought… until the morning Michael was kidnapped. When Dad kept trying to make sure I would be out of the house that morning, I became suspicious. So I hid in his closet. Reverend Sanders came by again.”

Sara sat up and stared directly into her sister’s eyes. “Tell me everything they said, Cassandra. Everything.”

* * *

Bangkok at night.

The Thai locals approached every white-faced person who walked down Patpong, whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would have made a porn star blush. But no one approached George. One or two of the Thais knew him personally; some had met him on occasion; many knew his name; all feared going anywhere near him.

Despite the enormous crush of people, the locals parted when George walked by, letting him pass, fighting to get out of his way. It was past midnight already, but Patpong was just beginning to stretch out its arms and prepare for the evening that lay ahead. George brushed past a group of Japanese businessmen who were negotiating rates and terms with a local pimp as if they were sitting in a Tokyo conference room.

When George reached Rama IV Road, he hailed a tuk-tuk, the native taxi of Thailand. A cross between a car and a scooter, the tuk-tuk had its good points — it was small, quick, used up next to no fuel, and was open-air. It also got crushed in an accident, had no headroom, and was open-air.

The driver gave George the customary Thai greeting. He clasped his hands in a praying position, bent his head forward until his nose touched his fingertips, and said, “Sawasdee, kap.”

George returned the greeting, though not bending nearly as far as the driver. “Sawasdee.”

“Where to?”

“Wats,” George barked.

The driver smiled and nodded. George climbed into the bright blue tuk-tuk. The driver continued to smile. Typical Thai, George mused. Thailand, Land of Smiles. Everybody smiling. They might be griping, whoring, thieving, murdering, but they always smiled. George liked that.

They stopped at a traffic light on Silom Road. A voice shouted, “Hey, mate!”

George glanced to his right.

“Yeah, that’s right, mate,” a red-faced, inebriated Australian shouted, pointing at George, “I’m talking to you.” The Aussie looked to be about fifty years old. There were six prostitutes jammed into a taxi with him — young Thai girls no more than thirteen, fourteen tops, giggling and rubbing the man with fast, vigorous hands.

George’s face registered disgust. “What do you want?”

“Well, mate, it’s like this, right. Seems I bit off a bit more than I can chew here, you see. Wanted to know if you wanted to go halfsies.”

“Halfsies?”

“You take three and I’ll take three — unless we want to do an eight-person thing. Kind of a lick-’em and luv-’em orgy. Might be up for that.”

“Degenerate,” George spat.

“Hey, that’s not a nice thing to say,” the Aussie slurred. “ ’Specially as I don’t know what it means.”

The man laughed hysterically at this. The young women (kids really) joined him. The Aussie laughed harder, spurred on by the realization that the girls found him so amusing. The girls, George knew, did not understand a word of English, with the exception of some sexual terminology.

“Go to hell,” George called back.

The light turned green and the tuk-tuk moved onto Charoen Road. It noisily began its journey along the Chao Phraya River. In Thai, wat meant temple or monastery, and Bangkok had more than four hundred temples of breathtaking beauty. Color was the key word in Thai architecture. Red, yellow, green, blue, and most especially gold — all reflecting the bright sun in an amazing kaleidoscope of nature and man.

There was Wat Po, which housed the Reclining Buddha — a statue so immense it stretched across an area larger than half a football field. Another enormous Buddha image, cast in well over five tons of solid gold, sat upon the altar of Wat Traimit, and Wat Arum, the Temple of Dawn, appeared to be suspended above the Chao Phraya River as though held there by the gods, its towering spires reaching up and scratching the very heavens with pointy claws.

But Bangkok’s most spectacular temple was known to the Thai people simply as Wats, though it was far more than just a temple. Tourists knew it as the Grand Palace, though it was far more than that too. The Grand Royal Complex might be a better name. Everything King Rama I, ruler of the Chakri Dynasty, could have wanted was housed within the walls that enclosed his palace, including one of the most sacred images in all of Buddhism — the Emerald Buddha. In this bastion of awe-inspiring color and beauty, the Emerald Buddha stood out only for its rather startling unimpressiveness. The statue was only a few feet high, was made of jade, and showed no real signs of unusually brilliant handwork. You could buy an exact reproduction for a few baht in any Thai trinket store.

“We’re here, boss.”

“Swing around to the other side.”

“Okay, boss.”

At night, spotlights illuminated the many spires and pagodas of the Grand Palace, creating an impression both bright and haunting. In a word: mysterious. Like the most seductive woman, Bangkok hinted at unparalleled delights while always keeping part of itself covered, hidden from view, a secret.

“Stop here.”

“Yes, boss.”

The tuk-tuk chugged to a halt. George paid the driver and crossed over toward the Chao Phraya River. He walked along the river’s edge, watching the wooden rice barges drift lazily by as though they had no particular destination in mind, the drivers still wearing their enormous straw hats though the blazing sun had settled in the west hours ago. The Chao Phraya was more than a river to Bangkok. It was her lifeblood. The waterway was used for transportation, for floating food markets, for bathing. Families had lived for centuries in huts