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“Some of it. Camron also said he never killed Martino. So I got to thinking—who had the best opportunity to kill Riccardo Martino? Riker claimed to be the last guy who saw him alive. He probably injected him with cyanide a few minutes before O’Connor knocked him over the head.”
“You got a motive for all of this?”
Max thought for a minute. “It’s an unselfish, albeit warped, one—Riker thought he could cure AIDS. He tried desperately to keep his clinic financed, but after their first year he must have realized that he needed something big or their grant would get cut off. That’s when he decided to fake the cure. But he also knew that Trian, Whitherson, and Martino would never stand up to close scrutiny and eventually they would die. So he had to find other patients who could stand up to any test. He had to find patients who would be legitimately HIV negative when tested by the government. That’s when he brought in Krutzer, Leander, and Singer.”
Willie swerved around a van. “It’s a nice little theory, Twitch. Have any evidence?”
“I will. Riker’s one problem was the storage house in Bangkok. All lab material was immediately packaged by either Eric Blake or Winston O’Connor and sent to Bangkok for safekeeping. If Riker had tried to divert it, it would have looked suspicious. But Riker really wasn’t worried about it anyway. He figured he could always have the storage house destroyed if anybody got too close to the truth.”
“Which is what he tried to do, except you nailed Camron first.”
Max nodded. “Colonel T’s men are guarding the building twenty-four hours a day. When we test the stored blood specimens, it will prove that the blood taken upon admittance could not possibly belong to the same person as the blood taken when they were supposed to be cured. That’s one reason Riker wanted the safe house in Bangkok. It was far away and yet it was George Camron’s hometown. Markey and the government would have a lot of trouble finding it. If they really tried, Riker could always have George destroy it.”
“Case solved.”
“I hope.”
“Do you think Riker knows you’re on to him?”
“I doubt it.”
“So calm down. We’re almost there.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What?”
Max leaned down and picked up the pencil. “Sara is alone with him.”
IT was so cold.
Sara wrapped her arms around herself but it did no good. The frigid air cut through her skin to the bone. She looked down, coughing. Eric’s body was in a twisted fetal position. His eyes were closed, a bullet wound in his throat. She wondered how Michael had died. Had he been tortured or had it been quick and painless? She fought back tears and tried to think clearly. For the sake of their unborn child, she had to find a way out of this.
She tried the door, but it would not budge. Her cough had become relentless, racking her body with powerful jerks. She could feel the cold settle into the bottom of her lungs. She wondered if it was an infection. Her lips trembled. She felt weak, drained. She hunched her body into a small ball, her eyes darting about the small room. There were shelves filled with various codes. One test tube said 87m332. Another read 98k003. The beakers were labeled NaOH, SO2, H2SO4, H3PO4, HCl and CHCl3.
Michael. Her poor, beautiful Michael. Dead. How? Why?
The room was tiny. The walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in around her. Sara curled herself into a tighter ball, lowered her head, and sobbed gently. She had never known such loneliness, such despair. The cold grew unbearable. Her fingers became numb. She felt herself grow weaker and weaker. She tried to concentrate on a Blue Oyster Cult song in a bizarre attempt to keep herself awake.
But she felt herself slipping away.
Hold on, Sara. Hold on.
But it was no good. Harvey was coming back soon and then it would be over. Her Michael was dead. He had joined the Reaper, and in the end, so would she.
Her eyes began to close.
25
MICHAEL was still unconscious when they wheeled him into his room on the third floor. Dr. Sombat patiently filled Harvey in on everything that had happened.
“Your Lieutenant Bernstein is a brave man,” the Thai doctor said. “He saved Mr. Silverman’s life.”
“Did they capture the man who kidnapped Michael?” Harvey asked.
“Yes. He is in custody.”
“Has . . . has he said anything yet? Anything that might help solve this case?”
“I apologize, Dr. Riker, but I am not privy to that information.”
Harvey nodded. “Where is Lieutenant Bernstein now?”
“He had an emergency,” Dr. Sombat replied. “He drove off with Sergeant Monticelli. If there is nothing else, I have to get back to the airport.”
“No, nothing else. Thank you for all your help.”
“You are welcome. How can I get back to Kennedy Airport?”
“Ask the receptionist downstairs to call a taxi. Thanks again.”
They shook hands and Dr. Sombat departed, leaving Harvey alone with Michael in the quiet, dark room.
“Michael?”
No response. Harvey could see that Michael’s nose was broken. He had lost a considerable amount of weight.
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
Harvey stared down at his young friend lying helplessly in the bed. A tear ran down his cheek. He bent over and gently kissed Michael’s forehead. Then he turned to leave.
“Harv?”
He turned around. Michael looked up through the darkness with groggy eyes.
“I’m right here, Michael. You’re back now.”
His voice was barely a whisper. “Sara?”
“She left a few minutes before you got here,” he replied. “I left a message on the answering machine for her to call me.”
“Feel . . . feel weak.”
“I know. Try to get some rest. I’ll wake you when Sara gets here.”
Michael tried to nod. “Max got the Slasher.”
“I know,” Harvey replied, walking back toward the bed. He hugged his friend. “Go to sleep now, Michael. Everything is going to be okay. You want me to give you something?”
Michael shook his head and closed his eyes. Harvey quietly crept out of the room. Then he headed down the hallway, unlocked the door, and entered the laboratory.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” he said out loud. But there was no one to hear his words.
He took the gun out of his pocket and wrapped a towel around the barrel, using it as a makeshift silencer. No matter, really. The refrigeration room was soundproof once the door was closed. He had shot Eric in there and no one had heard a sound.
