"And for right now I have informed the lieutenant that the patients are not to be touched or handled in any manner." || Eric said nothing. | Max cleared his throat.
"Now that we have that settled, how many cured patients are still alive?"
"Three," Harvey answered.
"And to answer your other ' question, no, there would be no reason to hide Michael from the killer since he is not a cured patient. I might suggest, however, a few extra men at the entrances."
"Okay," Max agreed.
"Where are the three patients?"
"They're all here."
"Good. Did you have a chance to go through Dr. Grey's private files yet?"
Harvey nodded slowly.
"Do you have a list of Dr. Grey's missing files?"
"Here." Harvey handed Max a piece of paper and stepped back. Max glanced over the list of names. He shook his head, took the pencil out of his mouth, and scratched a line across three names:
Krutzer, Theodore Leander, Paul Martino, Riccardo Singer, Arnold Trian, Scott Whithoroon, William
"Let me guess," Max said wearily.
"The three surviving HFV negative patients are Krutzer, Leander, and Singer."
Harvey nodded.
Max pocketed the list and headed for the door.
"Then let's start preparing them for the move to the safehouse."
"Fine. Eric, I'll see you later."
"Okay."
After the two men left the room, Eric Blake walked toward his private file cabinet. He bent down, unlocked the bottom drawer, and reached way into the back. His fingers deftly lifted away loose papers, digging down to the bottom where they hit warm glass.
Eric quickly made sure that no one was looking before he pulled out a test tube filled with blood.
Police Sergeant Willie Monticelli was three years away from his pension. He was a twenty-seven-year veteran of the force, having worked homicide for over a decade. Sounded like glamorous work to many but usually the job was about as exciting as watching paint dry. It consisted of running down useless leads, interviewing hostile people who knew nothing, writing up painstaking progress reports which were never read, and worst of all, surveillance.
Right now Willie Monticelli was on his second day of surveillance. The first day had produced the usual nothing.
Zippo. Subject X had not done one thing that could be labeled even slightly suspicious. Day 2, however, was another matter.
On Day 2, Subject X had flown to Washington, DC.
Earlier in the morning Willie had followed Subject X to La Guardia Airport where he purchased a ticket for American Airlines flight 105 to Washington. Willie did likewise. When Subject X landed at Dulles International Airport, he rented a car from Hertz. Willie did likewise. Now they were both driving down Rockville Pike. Destination still unknown. Willie was not worred about losing the grey Chevy Camaro in front of him. He was the best tail-man in the business.
Willie could stick to a guy's tail like sweaty thighs to a car seat.
He shook his head. Twitch Bernstein had done it again. The kid was stranger than a duck on bad acid, no question about it, but Willie reviewed his nearly three decades on the force and could think of no better man to lead a homicide investigation.
The kid was more than just smart; hell, there were a lot of smart guys in homicide. No, Willie thought, it was Twitch's very weirdness that raised him above the others. Twisted and warped realities were no problem from Bernstein. The kid understood the loony mind.
Subject X's car turned, stopped in front of a guard's post, and then continued forward. Willie stopped his car and looked at the sign.
NATIONAL INSTITUTES OF HEALTH
Sara undressed quickly, sat on the cold examining table and waited. She passed the time by reading Dr. Carol Simpson's medical diplomas twice and counting the tiles on the floor.
Ninety- four in all.
Carol Simpson arrived with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry," she said.
"It's been a busy week."
"I understand."
"How are you feeling?"
"Okay."
Carol took in a deep breath, held it, and then let it go.
"Look, Sara, there are two things I can do. I can dance around awkwardly and pretend I live in a vacuum and never heard about Michael's condition or I can just come out and say I'm sorry. If there is anything I can do..." "Just one thing," Sara said.
"Help me make Michael the father of a healthy baby."
"I'll do my best, but I have to be honest with you. This is not going to be an easy pregnancy. Normally, I would tell you to avoid stress, but I realize that would be impossible in your case. I can only urge you to minimize it as much as possible. Try to keep up with your regular routine."
"IT! be going back to work on the show tomorrow," Sara said.
"Now that the treatment is getting more intense, I won't be staying overnight at the hospital anymore."
"Good."
"Doctor Simpson?"
"Carol."
"Carol, what are the chances that I'll carry to full term?"
Again, the doctor inhaled deeply, kept the air in her lungs and her puffed cheeks, and then released it slowly.
"I don't know," she said at last.
"The next month or two will be critical. If we can get past that, it should get easier. Now why don't you lie back and relax?"
Exhaustion emanated from every fiber of Harvey's being.
He wished he could find a way to unwind, to forget this place for just a few minutes, to re-juice his flagging battery. But there was no escape and in truth, it was because he accepted none.
The clinic was just too important to diddle in the mundane or trivial.
He opened the door to his office. The room was dark. No lights on. No windows to offer illumination. He flicked the switch.
"Close the door," a husky voice commanded.
Harvey's stomach dropped to his knees as he stared at Cassandra. She was standing in front of his desk wearing a short white robe whose brightness contrasted beautifully with the dark Mediterranean tone of her upper thigh. Her long, black hair was slightly mussed, with a couple of tight curls reaching down and covering one eye. She smiled a wild, seductive, tantalizing smile that he could feel in his toes.
"I said, close the door."
Swallowing, Harvey obeyed.
She loosened the robe and let it open slightly, hinting at the delights that lay beneath.
Harvey swallowed again.
The robe slid off her shoulders and onto the floor.
Underneath, she wore only a black garter belt and lace brassiere.
"I've been waiting for you," she purred.
With her torrid gaze never leaving his, Cassandra sat on his desk and slowly lowered herself into a prone position. She rolled back, stretching her hands above her head and arching her back.
Then she turned her body to the side, her head leaning against her hand.
She renewed her smile.
Harvey's eyes crawled over every inch of her, over every luscious curve. Her body was utterly fantastic. Mile-long legs to a flat stomach, hourglass hips and waist, and then her bountiful, round breasts and smooth shoulders. Incredible. She was almost impossibly voluptuous.
He felt the familiar, unsettling stir building up inside of him.
He tried to swallow yet again, but his mouth had gone completely dry.
"I thought we agreed to take this slow," he managed.
She laughed, threw her head back, and beckoned him forward with both a look and a demanding finger.
"The slower, the better."
Max drove the rented station wagon across the George Washington Bridge and into New Jersey. In the back seat Theodore Krutzer, Paul Leander, and Arnold Singer sat quietly. They looked, Max thought, amazingly healthy and calm. All three men had been diagnosed with the AIDS virus two years ago, but Max would never have guessed it. He kept turning around and snatching glances at them. Their good health and spirits, in shocking contrast to the many friends and lovers Max had seen ravaged by the virus, were a fresh and constant reminder to him of the importance of solving this case.