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“Three.”
“Three cured patients left,” Max repeated. “Well, then, all three need protection. They should be moved to a safe house where no one will know where they are.”
“I agree,” Harvey said.
“Then I have a suggestion for you, Doctor, that you might not like. I want to put them in a real safe house.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If this conspiracy is as big as you suspect, then anyone could be involved in this plot. They’ve already gone to extreme lengths and they probably won’t stop now. I think it safest if no one, not even you, knows where they are. The less everyone knows, the less that can slip out. Or be forced out.”
“Do you really think—”
“Five men have been murdered already,” Bernstein interrupted.
“But these patients have to be watched by a qualified doctor.”
“I have a doctor who has made a living keeping his mouth shut. You tell him what to do and he’ll do it. If you need to see them yourself, I’ll take you to the safe house. Blindfolded.”
Harvey nodded. “Okay, sounds reasonable. But I want your word that the patients won’t be touched without specific permission. If your doctor were to give them the wrong medication or take unnecessary tests—”
“He won’t—you have my word. I’d also like to go through the medical records of the four victims.”
“Of course, Lieutenant, but let me ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“If this conspiracy is so powerful, how do I know you’re not a part of it?”
Bernstein stopped pacing, looked up, and twirled his hair around his middle finger. “Interesting question,” he replied. And then he walked out the door.
JENNIFER Riker woke up on the couch. The contents of the packet were scattered around her. I’ll look through it later, she thought. She showered, dressed, and poured herself a bowl of Triple Bran, the latest in a series of fad cereals that were supposed to cure everything from cancer to lockjaw. It tasted like tree bark. Her sister, Susan, bought all those crazy health foods, coming home from the supermarket exclaiming, “I just bought (fill in the blank), and my friend (fill in the blank) swears that this will make you feel one hundred percent more (fill in the blank).”
She sighed, carried the bowl back into the den, and sat on the couch. She glanced at the file she had read yesterday. Unbelievable. Harvey and Bruce had done it. Cured AIDS. Turned an HIV positive into an HIV negative. Historic.
Jennifer picked up Scott Trian’s file and fingered through the pages until she arrived at the spot where she had left off. She scanned down the page. There. The spot where Trian became HIV negative. She read on. Trian’s condition progressed nicely now, though not without some setbacks. Bruce noted:There are times when Scott is made so weak from the injections of SR1 that I fear for him. Harvey and I talked about it last night. We both agree that we have to do something to lessen the side effects. Still, the alternative—death from AIDS—is far worse than what we are seeing in Trian.
The file held no more surprising revelations, just a few scattered notes about Trian’s reaction to SR1. Bruce’s last note read:DNA? A vs. B
What did that mean? She shrugged, put down the file, and picked up another. Whitherson, William. His file was very much like Trian’s. Whitherson had also been transformed to HIV negative, but he had other problems:Bill’s family is so damn unsupportive. His father won’t speak to him, and his mother feels trapped between her husband and her son, afraid to talk to Bill because her husband would see it as some sort of betrayal. Horses’ asses, both of them. The funny thing is Bill still loves them like mad. He calls them all the time. I hear him pleading over the phone in a hushed, defeated voice. “But don’t you understand? I’m dying.” Still nothing.
And the same last note:DNA? A vs. B.
She read about Krutzer, Theodore, next. His pattern was very similar to the others’ with only a few noticeable differences:Unlike Whitherson’s family, Teddy’s seems positively unbelievable. His father and mother have not only accepted their son’s homosexuality, they seem to encourage it. His father invites Teddy’s boyfriend to the house on weekends. They go fishing together.
And then further:Another cured patient. It’s too good to be true. Krutzer’s illness had never been acute, nothing worse than a bout with hepatitis and a few skin rashes. And now he’s cured. Harvey made a suggestion today which I think is valid. The conversation between Harvey, Eric, and me went something like this.
Harvey: You do all the testing on Krutzer, Bruce. Don’t let anyone else but yourself touch this case. You do the tests in the lab yourself.
Eric: Why?
Harvey: Independent research. If different people handle different cases, then one man cannot be accused of tampering with the results. I suggest you try to bring in Markey on this one.
Me: Okay, I’ll give him a call. I doubt he’ll be interested.
Harvey: At least we can say we offered him the opportunity.
Eric: I’m not sure why we have to do this. We don’t have time to play lab technicians.
Harvey: It’s too important, Eric. We can’t let there be any holes in our research for our enemies to exploit.
The rest of the files read similarly, each with its own unique twists and turns. Nothing odd about that. What was odd, however, was that they all ended with the same strange note:DNA? A vs. B.
Jennifer was about to reach for the last file when she remembered the small tubular containers. She glanced at them, stacked on the edge of the couch. Each one had a patient’s name taped to the outside. She pried open the one that read “Trian, Scott.” Inside were two small test tubes labeled A and B.
What the . . . ?
She pulled the small test tubes—more like vials really—out of the snug holders. Blood. They were blood samples. She examined the other containers. All were the same. A patient’s name taped to the outside, two test tubes labeled A and B both filled with blood on the inside.
What for?
Then she noticed the small white envelope.
It had fallen under the couch and only a corner of it was visible. Jennifer reached down and picked up the envelope. Plain white. No return address, no markings. The kind of envelope you’d buy at a five-and-ten. Bruce had written “Susan” across the front in his familiar scrawl. Jennifer turned the envelope over. When she read what Bruce had written across the back seal, she felt her stomach drop into her feet. In small, plain block letters, it said:TO BE OPENED UPON MY DEATH
